


To Temper Sorrows

by I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins



Series: The Way of Thedas [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 86,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24319912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins/pseuds/I_Write_Tragedies_Not_Sins
Summary: Smuggler, pickpocket, knife-ear, the Dark Wolf- All names of the charming and flirtatious Maroth Tabris. After the Arl of Denerim's son rapes and murders his wife as punishment for stealing, Maroth's only goal is protecting his daughter from the shem's wrath and the Blight spreading across Ferelden."Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him." Melina Amell is a meek and shy spirit healer who wants to stay in the circle and devote her life to the Maker. But when darkspawn threaten to overwhelm the King's army, she's sent out into the world to help heal the soldiers.Where once rage and rebellion bubbled hot under the surface, now Jalyn Surana only knows Tranquility. She was made tranquil to protect the ones she loves but when Uldred attacks the circle and all those who live there, Jalyn must fight to survive. But it isn't blood mages Jalyn has to fear when she's thrust back into the Fade after so long.A story of three people who help the Hero of Ferelden, Daveth of Denerim, defeat the fifth blight and battle their inner demons while a civil war rages on.
Relationships: Alistair & Female Amell (Dragon Age), Past Female Amell / Cullen rutherford, Past Jowan/Female Surana (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Male Tabris
Series: The Way of Thedas [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755727
Comments: 69
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Two important things to note before reading: city elves and the very poor humans of Denerim have an accent similar to Sera's. It's the only way I can make it make sense in my head. Secondly, my Tabris and Nesiara did get married, about seven years prior to the Blight. They married young, at about 16/17, which puts Maroth in his early 20s at the time of Origins. That's one of the AU elements of the story. The rest you'll discover as you read. 
> 
> I had written this story before but it was rushed and full of plot holes and inconsistencies and I wanted to redo it and, in doing so, many things changed. I hope you like it and leave comments! I love hearing what people think.

The bitter stench of burning flesh assaults Maroth’s nose, mingling with the sulfur of burning hair and smoky smell of wood. He can taste the smell in the back of this throat, clawing at his senses. He tries to shut his ears against the frantic screams of his people as shems in silver-plated armour cut them down one by one. Maroth Tabris holds his daughter to his chest, running as fast as he can through the streets, away from the guards. The alienage is ablaze around him, his friends and family dying and bleeding all for his revenge. His heart is racing; he just needs to cross the bridge and get his daughter to safety. Nothing else matters. Not even his father or cousins. He has to save his daughter above all else.

Shame gnaws at him as he flees. _Coward. This is your fault. You should save them. You should fight back._ Thoughts crawl through his head like spiders, weaving webs of doubt in their wake.

He doesn't know where he's going to go. He just runs, feet moving mindlessly through the alleyways of Denerim, praying for escape. It'll be a miracle, he knows, but he can't let his daughter have the same fate as her mother. She can't die, too.

He can hear Nessy’s soft voice scolding him still. She had always hated his work as a smuggler and thief but still stayed with him all these years. She had given him nothing but love and in return he gave her an early grave.

"Oiy! You, knife-ear! Stop!"

Three guards stand in front of him, weapons drawn. Fear stops him cold. Laylah continues to cry, tears streaming down her round face.

"Kill them both, filthy brat needs to shut up.”

An arrow pierces the speaker's skull and he falls to the ground with a thud before Maroth can act. Two daggers slide from the shadows, stabbing the fatter guard in the throat. The last one spins around but barely has time to lift his ax before two arrows slip through the gap between his armour. Maroth recognizes the red ribbon tied around the arrow’s shaft. Jenny dashes out from the shadows again, about six inches from where the guard had been looking, and slits his throat. Her red hair is dark in the moonlight, the color of his wife’s blood as she died in the shem estate.

"Hurry up then, before more come, right?" Jenny's look of anger turns to pity as Laylah stares at her with tears and snot running down her face. “Sera and I got you into this mess, pretty boy. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

As they run for the gate, Laylah finally stops crying, silently sucking her thumb as the echo of screams chase them from behind.

~*~*~  
  


_"If we ever left here, where would you go?"_ Nesiara's voice, that first day they had met, rings fresh in his ears. His reply echoes in his mind. _"I dunno. Maybe find the Dalish? My pa always tell stories about ‘em."_

Maroth’s skin prickles against the cold of the Brecilian Forest. He stares blankly at his daughter, his blood stained hands in his lap.

Nessy is dead.

He still can't believe it. His heart thunders in his chest as his hands begin to tremble. He wonders how many of his family survived the massacre. Pa…. Shianni… Nelaros…. Soris…. They could all be dead and it would be his fault.

"Mama," Laylah wails, rubbing her eyes with her fists. She looks up with him with golden eyes so much like Nesiara's, tears staining her cheeks. 

He quickly moves to cover her mouth, knowing Vaughn's men could be near. He muffles the sound, ears twitching as he listens carefully. An owl hoots in the distance, but the forest is otherwise quiet. 

Laylah claws at his hand, eyes wide. He lets her go, pulse in his throat, and she heaves as she tries to take in air. "Sorry, duckling," he whispers as she cries again.

He picks her up, snuggling her in his arms. "Shhh, Lala, shhh," he soothes, rocking her back and forth, praying to the Maker that he can quiet her before they're found. 

She looks into his eyes, and it pains him how much she looks like her mother. "I want mama," Laylah says, mumbling around the thumb she has stuck in her mouth.

"Mama... Can't be with us anymore," he replies, a tear falling down his cheek. Maroth clenches his fists, anger boiling through him again.

Filthy shems. He wants to shout, to scream and rage at the trees. And, in that moment, he wishes killing Vaughn hadn't been over so quick.

Laylah sniffs, grabbing his sleeve. "Gwandpa?" she asks, lip wobbling. 

"I don't know," Maroth answers honestly, knowing his six-year-old daughter won't understand.

She crawls off his lap and sits down on the ground, eyes wide, lips trembling but not crying. "I'm hwungwy, papa," Laylah mumbles, thumb back in her mouth.

Maroth glances up at her. "Hungry?" he repeats. He glances at his hands. "We should find a river or water... ."

Berries grow near water, right? Maybe he can catch a fish...

~*~*~

"Blasted friggin' tits," Maroth curses, causing Laylah to giggle by the shore. 

"Papa! Don't say the bad things," she says, wagging her tiny finger at him. 

The water from the stream is cold around his ankles as he tries to spear a fish for their supper. "I think I ‘ate nature," Maroth grumbles, wiping his brow. 

If only he had some blasted string to make a fishing pole. Then he could fish the right way.

A giggling sound causes him to spin, almost falling on his ass into the water. A woman stands on the shore next to Laylah, strange tattoos on her pointed face. Elven ears poke out of dark chocolate hair that's tied in many braids, much like Shianni's. His heart skips a beat.

"Oh! Hello! I didn't mean to startle you. You're not one of the People, are you? Oh, that's not what I meant, sorry. That sounded rude, didn't it? I meant you're not Dalish, right? No vallaslin. Of course you’re elven. I think your kind call them tattoos? I'm Merrill, by the way," she said, barely taking a breath in between each word. "Who are you? It's not rude to ask that, is it? Your name, I mean?"

Her accent is strange and lilting, and his heart hammers beneath his chest. "Maroth," he replies warily. "I could be Dalish, ya can't be sure. Maybe my clan is near, 'nd I ‘aven't received my valla-sl-slin yet," he replies, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

She shakes her head, brows furrowed. "Why are you lying? You're not Dalish," Merrill says. "Are you hiding from someone?" she asks, and he's surprised by her perceptiveness.

Laylah looks up at the woman. "Mommy's gone," she says, and the Dalish called Merrill frowns harder, pity filling her eyes.

"Oh you poor thing. The shemlen must be looking for you."

Maroth nods, fear and anger making his hands shake. "You've got a clan, then? Are there many of ya?"

Merrill nods, but her expression is sad. "I don't think Keeper Marethari will allow you to join our Clan. It would bring too much risk to our People, if you’re being hunted. Come with me, you can stay with us for at least a few days, rest a bit and maybe eat? You look exhausted, and you must be starving. The flat eared elves don't know how to survive in the forests. Oh! That was probably rude of me, wasn't it? I'm sorry. I've never met a flat-ear before."

He glances at his daughter. "Not me. Just her," Maroth says, voice soft and filled with sadness.

Her green eyes widen. "And you will draw the shemlen farther away," Merrill whispers. 

"So long as she survives," he replies, squaring his shoulders. "That's all that matters ta me now."

Merrill nods, turning quickly as crunching leaves draw their attention. Merrill calls up a ball of flame but quickly puts it out when two other elves join them. One is a female, her long red hair pulled up in a high ponytail. Her purple tinted eyes are strange and sends a shiver down Maroth's spine as she stares at him.

"You found a flat ear, Merrill," she says, voice holding that same strange accent. "You were right, Tamlen. She found trouble."

The other elf is a male, his blonde hair cropped short but still hanging across his forehead, a little messy from the wind. He's silent a moment, staring at Laylah. "Two flat ears, lethallan. Look, there's a young one with them," he says, pointing with his bow.

The girl's expression softens slightly. "Ah, da'len," she whispers. She shakes her head. "Merrill, we need to leave. I sense something dark has... awoken, nearby," she says.

Merrill frowns. "I have felt nothing, Revas'mi. What do you mean?"

Revas'mi closes her eyes. "Something... ancient. Tainted. A terrible reflecting glass with darkness pouring forth."

Tamlen looks around nervously. "We've warned the Keeper; she wants to speak to you."

Revas'mi bites her lip, opening her eyes and looking down. He nudges her shoulder, lacing his fingers with her. "Hey, lathallan, are you okay?"

She nods. "Just a headache, ma lath."

Merrill glances at Laylah and then back at Maroth. "Alright then. Maroth, come with us. Stay at least a day or two. It will give you a chance to say your goodbyes properly.”

Revas'mi nods, causing the man holding her hand to frown. "It's dangerous," he warns.

Merrill nods. "I know. But we can't abandon this child. Look at her, Tamlen. She's so small."

Tamlen looks over at Revas’mi before frowning and nodding his head. “Alright, let’s move before the shemlen find us.”

They walk in silence, Laylah held in Maroth’s arms as she takes a nap. He can hear her stomach growl in hunger. He holds back a sigh. She should be at home, with her mother, helping to make vegetable stew.

Merrill’s clan eye him warily as they walk toward an elder woman with long grey hair done up in a tight bun. She squints at him, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“I am Keeper Marethari. There’s a darkness in you, child. Be careful it doesn’t consume you,” she says in place of a greeting.

Maroth grunts. “Right,” he replies. He rubs the back of his neck with one hand and shuffles a bit on his feet. “Uh, thanks.”

He only half listens as Merrill explains the situation to her leader. He picks up only a few words; “Keeper”, “Shemlen”, “child”.

“You both must be hungry, child, “ Marethari says. “Go, sit by the fire, and Hahren Paivel will share with you some of our food. We haven’t much, but what we have is yours for the time being.”

Maroth nods, mumbling a soft thank you, before walking over toward the fire. Another older elf serves him a bowl of what smells like venison stew. Laylah’s eyes light up with happiness as she begins to eat. She takes each bite slowly, despite her hunger, just like her mother had taught her.

Maroth stares numbly at his own bowl of food, stomach turned sour with guilt and anger. Does he even deserve to eat, after what he had done? He never should have taken that blasted job from Jenny. He should have worked the docks, like his Pa. A thousand ‘should haves’ run through his mind.

_Nesiara's face is red, her fists balled tight at her side. "You promised, Maroth," she says, and her voice is barely above a whisper. Her Highever accent is smooth, more cultured than his. But her voice doesn't sound scared, rather it's filled with a quiet sort of anger that worries him. He's heard this tone before, right after Laylah was born. She'd threatened to take their daughter and go back to Highever then, if he didn't start a stable job at the docks._

_He nods, moving toward her. "I know, pet," he replies. "But we need the coin, Nessy. Shite, don't ya like the pretty things I buy fer ya?"_

_She looks over at their sleeping daughter, brow furrowed. "You could travel to Highever. Sell my crafts there. I always made my family good coin back home, you don't have to-"_

He should have bloody listened to her.

“Maroth?”

He startles at the sound, looking up into Merrill’s big green eyes. “Yeah? Whatsit?”

Merrill blinks slowly, as if she’s trying to understand him. “Right. The Keeper would like to see you now.” She frowns, brow pinching together in worry.

She leads him toward some sort of strange wagon looking thing with a tent over top. “The Keeper is inside the Aravel,” she says, voice soft.

She doesn’t meet his eyes as she speaks so he shrugs and climbs into the aravel. A heady incense fills the small space, smelling of cloves and spices he doesn’t recognize.

“Merrill has told me you wish to leave your daughter with our clan,” she says, a stern tone to her voice making him flinch.

He nods quickly, long blonde hair falling into his eyes. “Yeah, ‘at’s the right of it, I guess,” he replies. “S’not safe with me.”

The Keeper lets out a slow, deep breath before squaring her shoulders. Her change in posture makes him nervous. He tenses, watching her closely, preparing himself to flee.

“We will keep her safe but you must do me a favor in return,” she begins and relief floods through him. Laylah will be safe. He’d enter the blasted Fade itself if it meant protecting her.

“Earlier this evening, two of our youngest hunters found a small group of shemlens running from what they claimed was a demon. I can only thank the Creators they came to me before investigating.”

Maroth frowns. “Oiy now, does this ‘ave anythin’ ta do with w’at that red headed girl said ‘bout her vision? ‘bout something tainted?”

Marethari nods. “I believe it does, yes. Revas’mi has been plagued with strange dreams since childhood, though she is no mage. I want you to go and see what this strange object is. I will send two of my hunters with you. Merrill should have returned with them by now.”

Maroth raises an eyebrow. “Will Merrill be one of them?”

Marethari shakes her head abruptly. “No. I will cannot afford to risk my First on such a dangerous mission. Fenarel and Junar will accompany you.”

“W’ats ‘bout my daughter?”

Marethari’s expression shifts, eyes full of what looks like sympathy. “Go and say your goodbyes, child. After you have completed the task I ask of you, I do not want you to return with my hunters. Go far from our clan. The wrath of the shemlen is not something we Dalish want to risk.”

He slowly unwinds his body from the seated position and climbs out of the aravel. He can see Laylah dancing by the fire with the Dalish children. She’s smiling, face aglow. It probably hasn’t sunk in yet, that her mother’s dead and her home’s gone forever.

“Lala, come o’er here, will ya?” he calls out to her.

She runs full speed toward him, launching herself at his legs. “Papa! Paivel said he was gonna tell us stories tonight!”

Maroth bends down to stroke her hair. “Right, ‘hat’s good. Listen, Lala. I need ya ta be a good girl, alright?”

Laylah frowns. “Whatcha mean, papa? Are ya going away again?”

He flinches. “Yes, I’m leavin’ ta go far away,” he replies.

She shakes her head, small, round eyes filling with tears. “But I’m yer little duckling! A papa duck can’t go without their duckling!”

Something catches in the back of his throat at her words. “Yer gonna stay wit' Merrill ‘nd her clan now, Lala. Yer gonna be safe here, okay?”

“No! I don’t want ya ta weave!” Tears pour down her face in thick drops, staining her cheeks.

He stands up, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Now ya need ta listen to yer pa, okay? Stay ‘ere ‘nd be a goo-“

“No!” she screams. “I won’t be good! I won’t! I want my mama!”

Something in his heart shatters as he watches his daughter cry. “I’m sorry, Lala,” he replies and turns away. He starts to walk toward where Merrill waits with two other elves. Suddenly, a heavy force collides with his leg. He looks down and sees Laylah clinging to him as she sobs. “Pwease, I’m sorry, papa! I’ll be good, just don’t weave me.”

His heart skips a beat as a sob escapes his lips. He kneels down and pulls Laylah into his arms. “I’m sorry my little duckling, I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he squeezes her.

Eventually, a gentle hand rests on his shoulder. He looks into the purple eyes of the Dalish he met earlier. Reva… something.

“Your name is Laylah, right da’len?”

Laylah sniffs, rubbing at her nose with her sleeve. “Yes,” she replies.

“Paivel is waiting for you to begin the stories. You want to hear them, right? Come with me, and your father will be back in a few hours, okay?”

Maroth blinks at her, confused. She bends down and whispers in his ear. “It’s easier this way,” she says, and he suddenly understands.

It’s a lie. He won’t be back. But Laylah won’t know until it’s too late. He takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “T’at’s right, duckling. I’ll be back before ya know it.”

She frowns at him. “Promise?” she asks, holding out her pinky finger.

“Promise,” he lies, interlocking his pinky with hers.

“Now seal it,” she says, a serious expression on her face.

He twists his hand just a little until their thumbs meet, sealing the deal with a stamp.

It’s not the first lie he’s told her, but it’s the only one to taste so bitter in his mouth.


	2. Chapter 2

Melina stares out over the crowd of her fellow mages, her plump face flushed as she searches for a place to sit, shifting from foot to foot like a nervous pigeon. She carefully checks her barrier, making sure a firm wall is still surrounding her, keeping her emotions separate so they don't overwhelm her. Wynne says she’s just more sensitive as a healer, but she knows others whisper she’s too weak to pass her Harrowing.

An arm shoots out above the crowd, waving her over; and a small, relieved smile spreads across her face as she recognizes Finn. She shuffles over to where he's sitting with Petra, Niall, and Evelina. She curtsies before sitting down, blush deepening as she notices Evelina rolling her eyes.

"Always so formal, Amell. We're about to head off to battle together- lighten up," she says, her brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail. She grabs a hardened biscuit from the center of the table with a bored expression on her face, fingers plucking the bread deftly from the basket before Niall can grab it. He frowns at her, his brows furrowed together as she takes a bite.

Melina nods quickly. "Yes, Enchanter Evelina," she replies, voice soft. “But I haven’t passed my Harrowing, yet.”

Finn kicks her gently under the table. "She's just teasing, Melina. I doubt they'll take _you_ into battle," he assures her, flicking an imaginary speck of dirt off his robes.

Petra clears her throat, exchanging an amused glance with Niall. "You didn't know, Finn? They're short on Spirit Healers so Amell's taking her Harrowing tonight so she can join them."

Finn's mouth falls open, his eyes wide. "You mean, she has to go _outside_?" he replies, voice riddled with disgust.

Melina bites her lip, golden eyes cast down toward the table as she picks meekly at her food. She knows she's not very useful as a mage.

She looks up, meeting Finn's eyes. "It's because Anders ran away again. So, I have to do my best, and follow the templar's orders, so I can come home again quickly."

She glances to her left, where a wall of templars stand. Their shining silver armour brings her comfort, because she knows they will always be there to protect her from the dangers of her magic, should she succumb to the demons. Her eyes look for Cullen, even though her mind still whispers that it's foolish to love him. But he isn't there this time, and her heart falls a little as a sigh escapes her lips.

Niall takes a bite of food, shrugging his shoulders. "I hear that one kid, what's his name? Jaween, Jolan..." He meets Melina's eyes head on as he speaks, watching her.

Petra scoffs. "Jowan?" she supplies, and Melina's blood runs cold at the name.

Niall nods in response. "Yeah, that's the one. Surana's lover, the one she did blood magic for? He's going, too, or so I hear."

Melina clenches her fists into tight balls under the table as tremors of anger run through her. She struggles to keep a tight grip on her emotions, her magic stirring in her veins as her body shakes. No, she mustn’t lose control. She can’t get angry. She can’t.

_In the long hours of the night, when hope has abandoned me, I will see the stars and know Your Light remains. Maker, guide me please._

She's the only person in Kinloch Hold that knows the truth, that it's Jowan who is the maleficar, not Jalyn. 

_Melina races down the corridor, bumping into mages as her feet pound against the stone floor. Her heart is in her throat, making it hard to breathe. It can't be true. It can't. She reaches Owain's stockroom and comes to a sudden stop. Jalyn is there, dark red hair pulled into a low ponytail._

_Her expression is blank, eyes empty and hollow. A sun shaped brand blazes on her forehead, bright red and raw. Melina lunges forward, gripping Jalyn in a tight hug, tears pouring down her face._

_"Jalyn, why?" she whispers, not expecting an answer, not now._

_Jalyn stands there, stiff and unyielding in Melina’s arms. When Melina pulls away, Jalyn turns back to her duties cataloging the supplies for Owain. "I do not feel pain, but your tears are... uncomfortable. Do you need something, Miss?" Jalyn asks, voice monotone and cold._

_Melina slowly shakes her head. "I- I came to talk," she says._

_"I have work to do, Miss. I cannot be bothered now. If you need assistance, please speak to Owain."_

_Her heart shatters as she slides to the floor, back pressed against the wall. "I won't bother you, then. I'll just sit here awhile, if that's okay?"_

_Jalyn ignores her, instead carefully concentrating on her task._

It isn't the Templar’s fault. The Knight-Commander tried. He must have. It's Jowan. She knows that Jalyn had done this to protect that filthy blood mage; that she had chosen to sacrifice herself. It isn't _fair_. She misses Jalyn with a constant, stabbing ache as surely as her best friend had died a year ago.

She hangs her head, thick curls falling in front of her face to hide the single, cold tear streaking down her rounded cheek.

The voices of the other mages hum around her, but she ignores it, mind caught in a haze of grief. Slowly, she gets up from the table, food left barely touched, and wanders toward the storage room where Jalyn works.

The tranquil’s bony hands move deftly with foreign movements as she watches. Melina’s shoulders sag under the weight of her grief.

"Hello, Jalyn!" she calls out, forcing herself to smile wide and wave.

Jalyn doesn't look up, eyes barely even blinking as she continues her work. She focuses on it with a steady, blank stare. The elf feels hollow to her and Melina wants to cry, body trembling.

But Jalyn says her crying disturbs the enchantments. The last time she had cried, the templars had to escort her away. They say her spirit healing powers are harmful to the tranquil's work because they're opposite. Melina feels the Fade and Spirits even when waking.

Jalyn feels nothing at all.

She takes a deep breath and watches as her friend works, praying to the Maker that the Rite hadn't hurt. They had grown up together, sharing a bunk as children when there had been more mages than beds.

_Melina sits up in bed, sweat dripping down her face. “Father, no!” she cries out, arms raising to cover her face._

_But it’s just a dream. It’s not real. Not anymore. She’s safe, here at Kinloch Hold._

_Jalyn shifts beside her, sleepily rubbing her eyes. “What’sit, shem? Have another nightmare, did ya?”_

_Melina nods, curls tumbling around her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. She’s been at Kinloch Hold for four years now and still can’t shake the memories of her father’s angry fists or her mother’s scared, tear-stained face._

_Jalyn wraps one arm around her. “Hey, s’okay. Just be careful. If the templars think there’s a demon after ya….”_

_Melina takes a deep breath and snuggles into Jalyn’s embrace. “I’m scared,” she replies._

_“Don’t worry, shem. I’m here.”_

Melina clenches her fists. It should be Jowan here, working enchantments by candlelight. It should be that blood mage who has lost his emotions. "I miss you, Jalyn," Melina whispers, turning away. Her breath shudders out as she wipes away a tear.

~*~*~

Melina smooths down her robes as she sits on her bed, hands shaking as she waits for Wynne to come for her. This is it, the night of her Harrowing. Butterflies flutter madly in her stomach as she fidgets with her patchwork robes.

A soft tapping lets her know someone has entered the room. She looks and sees Jowan hovering by her bed.

"Me-Melina?" he whispers, and his stuttering reminds her of Cullen. Anger makes her blood boil.

Her brow furrows as she turns her head to look at the man who has taken Jalyn from her. “Why are you here, blood mage?" she hisses, too low for the few remaining mages in the room to hear.

Jowan looks nervous anyway, beady eyes casting around as if he's checking for templars. "I'm just- I'm nervous too, you know. What if we fail?" he whines, wringing his hands. “I want to do well, for Jalyn.”

Melina narrows her eyes. "You should be nervous. Demons always prey on blood mages," she replies.

The tapping of more footsteps causes her to glance toward the door. A sudden smile lights across her face when Wynne walks in the room, her grey hair twisted atop her head, not a strand out of place. Wynne smiles kindly at her, and a warmth spreads all the way through Melina at the sight. Wynne's like a mother to her, a quiet guiding force that always gives her wise words to muse over.

"Senior Enchanter," Melina says, standing and curtsying. She knows it makes people uncomfortable, but she can't help it. It's one of the few memories she has of her mother. She’d always curtsy so smoothly and elegantly whenever they had company over for afternoon tea or supper or a fancy ball. Her gentle smile would light across her face as she greeted each guest personally.

Wynne guides her down the hallway and away from Jowan's sad eyes. Before they begin to climb the stairs, Wynne pauses. Melina bumps into her back and squeaks in surprise.

"Ompfh!" she mumbles, blinking rapidly. "Senior Enchanter? Is something the matter?"

Wynne shakes her head. "No child, we are waiting for our guard to escort us the rest of the way." Her face is calm and serene as she waits, hands folded neatly in front of her. In so many ways, Wynne reminds her of her mother.

Melina fidgets, tugging on her curls. It isn't long before she hears the familiar clanking of templar armour. Her face lights up as she sees Cullen rounding the corner. A sense of relief floods her: she knows she'll be safe if Cullen's the one watching over her.

He promised to protect her, after all.

He stops in front of them, nodding politely. "S-senior Enchanter; Miss Melina," he says, and she smiles to hear his stutter has improved in the last year.

"Ser Cullen, thank you for watching over me as I am about to undertake my Harrowing,” Melina replies. She wishes he would call her Mellie again, like he used to. It had been his special nickname for her, because of his stutter. Her heart aches to hear it again, even though she knows she shouldn’t.

Cullen frowns. "Y-Yes, of course, Miss," he replies. He gives her a small smile and her heart soars with gratitude. Even just a smile was more than she had seen from him in the year since she lost Jalyn.

She listens dutifully as the Knight-Commander explains the ritual to her. Then she turns, hands shaking slightly. She takes a deep breath. She has to do this. For Jalyn.

She looks into the pool of lyrium and magic and the Fade forms around her. Its ever shifting forms make Melina nauseous at first. Her stomach clenches in pain as her head swims, spots forming before her eyes. She sways on her feet but manages to stay upright, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that she shouldn't be here, and that she isn't ready.

The ground spins beneath her feet as she takes a hesitant step forward. Her legs are shaky as she takes in gulps of air, a cold bead of sweat trailing down her spine.

She closes her eyes, taking in a slow deep breath. She can't fail. She can't. When she opens her eyes again, the ground is more firm. Or as firm as anything in the Fade ever can be. She wanders for a bit, curiosity eventually taking hold of her as she stares at the strange statues and floating, white orbs. It’s such a strange place, the Fade, and it’s always intrigued her how so many statues and ruins seemed to float around. Did the Spirits make them, attempting to replicate what they saw through the minds of mortals? Or did the Maker create them and the demons destroyed them? It was a mystery to Melina and one she desperately wanted to know the answer to.

A white orb, larger than the rest, floats around her ankles, blowing her skirts around as she walks. It feels oddly familiar, like an old friend, though she isn’t sure why.

She giggles when it brushes against her skin, the strange sensation tickling her ankles. She wonders what it might be, and a soft whispering blows through her mind. No words, just a sound that mimics the wind. She can’t quite understand what it’s trying to say but she can tell it’s trying to communicate, in its own way.

She can sense something coming from it, some sort of pure emotion that she can't quite identify. It glows brighter when she probes it with her mind, and she can tell that, for lack of a better word, the spirit has felt a similar tickling sensation to the one she had felt when it touched her a moment ago.

She shakes her head, curls bouncing, as the Spirit continues to follow her; humming happily in her head. She walks for what seems like hours without going anywhere, the path always leading her back to the same point.

In frustration, she throws up her hands and looks at the glowing Spirit. "I don't suppose you know where it is I'm supposed to go?" she asks it, not really expecting an answer.

She sighs and turns, trying to pick a different path. She hears a low growl from in front of her, and gulps again.

"Maker, give me strength," she whispers as she ignores her instinct to run in the opposite direction.

She takes a few hesitant steps toward the sound, forcing herself ever forward.

"Maker's breath, what in all of Thedas is that?" she squeals, bouncing on the heels of her feet.

A strange bear-like creature is sprawled out on the ground in front of her. Strange spikes protrude from its body, and part of its skin is pulled tightly around one eye, revealing too much of the gleaming white orb.

Strangely, she has a strong desire to pet the beast, but resists. It probably isn't bad logic to assume a demon-bear will not enjoy being petted like a house cat, she figures, fighting her urge. Melina startles when the beast opens its other eye, this one a sickly red instead of white, to stare at her, unblinking.

She curtsies out of habit. "P-Pardon me, Ser Demon, but are you perhaps my test?" she asks.

The bear creature chuckles. "Ah... no, I am... not. I am... too weary for such mortal games... child. Begone," it says, voice grumbling with a strange whisper behind it, as if two creatures are talking in unison.

She stuffs her hands in her pockets to resist scratching it behind its ears. She isn't that keen on being the things dinner. "Are you here to help me, then?" she asks, earning an amused chuckle from it.

The creature peers at her a moment. "Perhaps... you could amuse me, for a moment. Perhaps you will play... a game... with me, mortal child?"

She bites her lip and the glowing orb buzzes angrily around the demon bear; who scoffs.

"Tell your... pet light to quit pestering me, or I shall make a snack... of you both," it grumbles, swatting at it with his paw. The motion is sluggish and delayed and he misses entirely.

She waves at the orb, hands frantic. "Come here, you. Please," she whispers, and it obeys, much to her surprise. She glances back at the bear, biting her lip again before nodding. "Alright. I-I'll play your game," she replies.

The bear grunts, settling back down. "Fine, very well then. The one who invented it... doesn't want it. The one who bought it... doesn't need it. The one who needs... it doesn't know it. What is it?"

Melina frowns as her mind searches for an answer. The little glowing orb hums around her head, and a word comes to her in a sudden burst. "Coffin?" she repeats, confused by the word echoing around inside her head. "Oh! It's a coffin!" she exclaims, understanding the riddle at once.

The bear grumbles, shifting to lay on its side. "Ah yes, very clever, young one." It grumbles some more in a way that sounds like it's trying to clear its throat. "My scale is something that does not… weigh in grams, ounces... or pounds. However, I may be heavy or... light. What am I?"

Melina grins, her smile bright against the dimness of the Fade. "This one is easy," she replies. "Musical scales."

The demon grunts again. "Such a witty... mortal, you are," it says. "Here is your final... test are you ready?"

Melina nods, curious what type of help the creature will offer in return.

"What gets… broken without ever... being held?"

Her shoulders slump as uncertainty overwhelms her, negative emotions feeling twice as strong in the Fade. She isn't any good at puzzles. She isn’t any good at anything. Why did they think she could do this? Dark shadows form around her feet.

She holds back tears and takes in a deep breath, exhaling quickly. No, she won't let her fears defeat her. She can't. For Jalyn, and for Cullen, she has to survive this. Cullen will never forgive himself if he has to kill her, even if they both know it's only his duty. Besides, she had promised-

"Oh, Oh that's it! A promise!" she says, clapping her hands together in excitement.

The beast rolls its eye, the other one staying immobile. It's an eerie sight that sends a shiver down Melina's spine. "Well done... mortal. You sought a... prize... did you not?"

She nods again, hesitant. Should she really accept help from what appears to be a demon?

"Your prize... is simple. I... shall not eat... you," it replies.

There is a loud popping sound and smoke covers her eyes. It's thick and cloying as she sputters, clutching at her throat as she tries to breathe through it. When it clears, and she can see once more, the demon bear is gone.

She spins around, looking for it, but it’s nowhere to be found. She looks at her Spirit friend. “What… What was that?”

The orb flickers and Melina sighs. Of course the simple spirit wouldn’t know any better than she.

She sighs, continuing to walk the twisted paths until she trips over a mouse. “Maker’s breath! What are you doing here, tiny mouse?”

Smoke surrounds the creature and human forms from it. “Hello,” he says, scowling. “The templars left you in here to die, too, didn’t they?”

Melina frowns. “That’s not true,” she replies. “Who are you?”

“You can call me… Mouse. I’ve forgotten my name, being left here so long.”

Her frown deepens as she stares at him. “Left?”

“The bloody templars!” he all but shouts. “They killed me and left me here!”

She shakes her head. “Mages don’t stay in the fade if the templars kill you,” she says, but to be honest, she’s not really sure how it works.

“What would you know? You’re just a poor, pathetic mage like I was,” he replies.

The orb flutters in front of her, flickering madly. “Shh, quiet,” she whispers.

Mouse frowns at the spirit. “That’s what they want you to resist, you know,” he says, pointing at it. “They want you to resist that demon and kill it.”

Melina shakes her head slowly. “It’s not a demon,” she whispers.

“That’s only what it wants you to think, mageling. Kill it, quickly, before it possess you.”

Doubt flickers through her as she watches the spirit bounce around. Is it really a demon? Is she so naïve she can’t recognize a dangerous spirit when she sees one?

Memories of training with Wynne run through her mind. The older mage had taught her how to recognize the good spirits they called on for healing. How to ask them, gently, for help instead of demanding or forcing. To thank them when their work is completed and to send them back to the Fade.

No, she knows a spirit when she sees one. And she knows a demon, too. She glares at Mouse. “You’re a liar. A demon of deception. I won’t trust you,” she says, squaring her shoulders.

“But I only want to hel-“

“No,” Melina cuts him off. “I won’t hear anymore from you! Leave me be, demon! I won’t do your bidding!”

The Fade starts to grow dim around her as Mouse chuckles. "Simple killing is a warrior's job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconceptions... careless trust... **_pride_**. Keep your wits about you, mage. True tests... never end."


	3. Chapter 3

Jalyn's mind is a quiet space, an empty space filled with a single-minded task to follow orders. Sometimes, when the circle is quiet and the mages have gone to bed, she can remember the feelings she held before the tranquility. Far away, like a distant fog she can't touch, she never feels the emotions but the memories they created still swirl around her mind sometimes.

She remembers hiding under blankets with Melina Amell, giggling in the dark. She remembers studying magic with her mentor, Leorah. She remembers Jowan and stolen kisses in hidden corridors, his hands warm and soft against her skin. She even remembers things that used to give her nightmares; dark memories that made her cry out in the dark, filled with pain and fear and anger so strong it almost choked her.

 _There is no light. There are no windows. The walls_ _are painted_ _a crisp white but blood-stained scratch marks are everywhere, tiny reminders of the_ _mages_ _trapped here before her. There is no sound. No bed and no blankets. The only thing in the room is a small metal basin for_ _mages_ _to relieve themselves in. The room is tiny with barely enough space to walk around._

_It's smothering. Sometimes, it feels like she can't breathe. Like the walls are closing in on her. Jalyn can feel panic and bile rise up in her throat as she clutches her stomach._

_She vomits in the corner, emptying the meager contents of her belly in a_ _violent explosion_ _across the stone floor. The smell is thick and fills her senses but after a while, she becomes numb to the horrible smell of feces, piss, and vomit._

 _Jalyn_ _can't tell how much time has passed. Every hour is the same as the one before it. She tries pacing in a tight line, hoping to burn off energy so she can sleep. It isn't helping. It just increases her restlessness. So she sits, in the corner, knees up and pressed against her chest. Her meals are irregular and infrequent, making it impossible to tell the time. Not knowing makes her frantic and disoriented and she rocks on her heels, gently, back and forth to try to keep calm._

_ She sits there, huddled in on herself, and sings. She sings the song her mother used to sing to her, a Dalish lullaby from before she left her clan to be with her husband in the Denerim Alienage.  _

_ "Elgara vallas, da'len."  _

_ Her voice is broken, and she pronounces most of the words wrong, but it brings her a small bit of comfort as tears run down her face.  _

_"Ara ma'desen melar." _

_She wishes desperately her mother is here, someone to hold her and comfort her._

_"Ma garas mir renan." _

_She's sure she has been in here for a week, at least. Maybe longer. Have they forgotten her? How long are they going to keep her here? She's afraid and lonely and angry. She spends hours pounding on the door, screaming until her voice goes hoarse and her throat is raw. She wants_ _out._ _She wants to be with Melina and Jowan. She even misses Wynne's lectures, boring as they are. She just wants to see_ _people_ _again, whatever the cost. She's prayed to the Maker for a release but He's been silent and ignored her pleas._

_Twice guards have come in when she screamed. They beat her until she stops. It's brutal and painful but she's glad for the physical contact, the reprieve from being alone. Afterwards, she'll lie there, body aching, and finally sleep._

_The dreams are always terrible. She'll wander the Fade and the demons hound her. They make promises of teaching her blood magic so she can escape, telling her it's the only way. But every time she feels herself grow weak, she pictures Melina's face. Knowing how disappointed her friend would be, she holds on and resists. So long as Melina still needs her, she will not give in to temptation._

_She hears the door to her cell creak open, a soft sound she almost misses. She scampers to her feet, hope making her crane her neck to look. When they bring her food it's slipped under the door so maybe this is her chance at freedom? Have they come to finally release her?_

_A_ _templar_ _enters the room. She gasps in fear when she sees his face; his smile is cruel and doesn't quite reach his eyes. No, his eyes are cold and empty as he looks at her. He closes the door behind him and begins walking toward her. He isn't wearing any armor, just a pair of breeches and a tan undershirt. A large bulge_ _is formed_ _under his pants, and he fondles it as he walks toward her._ _Jalyn's_ _eyes are wide as fear makes sweat trickle down her spine._

 _He_ _unbuckles_ _his belt and_ _Jalyn_ _screams. "No one will come, no matter how loud you scream, knife-ear. It's time I taught you a lesson, little girl," he sneers, anger and desire making his voice low._

 _She tries to run but there's no escape. He grabs her by the hair, yanking hard, and she cries out in pain. His breath smells of ale as he forces his lips on hers. She bites his lip as she rakes her nails across his face, desperate to escape. He snarls, throwing her to the ground where she lands with a harsh thud. She tries to crawl away, hands and knees scrambling. Her nails scrape across the ground as he drags her back to him. He flips her over, smiling down at her; his crooked teeth_ _are stained_ _and disgusting and she tries not to look._

But these memories hold no pain for her now. They didn’t happen to her. They happened to someone who can cry and laugh and feel fear and love. She feels none of that, so it didn’t happen to her at all.

She doesn't miss the people she knew, doesn't feel sad over her loss. She feels nothing at the stirring of memories below the surface haze. She walks toward the room where the Chantry sister stays to speak the Chant of Light, a list held in her hands. Her steps are evenly paced and methodical, just like her mind. No, she doesn't miss emotion at all.

She overhears the blonde templar, Cullen, talking of a war. Some sort of monster, a thing they call darkspawn, have become a horde on the surface. Jalyn watches from a distance, remembering that the person she used to be had hated him. Cullen meets Sister Lily's eyes as she hears his confession.

"I am worried for her safety. I cou-couldn't live with myself if she died when I- I could have protect-tected her." His voice is soft, like a whisper, but the cadence is high pitched, almost keening.

Sister Lily curves her lips into a smile, skin stretching and crinkles forming around her eyes. "I don't think the Maker would call friendly concern a sin, Ser Cullen," she says, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Cullen scoffs. "Friendly. Right," he mutters, shaking his head as his face shifts from the pale grey colour of those who haven't seen sunlight in a while to a bright red, flushed as he looks at the ground. "Forgive me Maker, for I _have_ sinned." He crosses his heart, closing his eyes with a hefty sigh.

Their words are meaningless to Jalyn, but a flash of memory enters her mind at his tone. Melina Amell, caught in a shadowed embrace with the templar, a brief press of lips that can barely be called a kiss. There was an emotion there for her, once. Conflicting. Colliding.

But she can't bring it forward. She looks down at her hands instead. She takes a step forward, meeting Senior Enchanter Leorah's eyes. "I have need of these ingredients." She speaks the words slowly, focused, direct, handing her a list of things.

Leorah peers down her nose, squinting at her. "Right. Uh, Surana." She pauses, looking away and shifting her body. Her brows are furrowed and her shoulders stiff.

Jalyn remembers Leorah as a relaxed, casual woman- a stark contrast to her current posture.

"I am making you uncomfortable." Jalyn says the words plainly, unblinking, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.

"Huh? Oh, uh, no! Well, a little," she admits with a shrug. "Well, no matter. What shall I say these are for?"

Jalyn looks back down at the supplies, an assortment of lyrium, etching agents, and runes. "Enchantments."

Enchanter Leorah nods. "Right. Maker's blessings to, uh, oh... ." She trails off, though Jalyn doesn't understand why.

She turns, unconcerned, and heads toward her enchantment table. She empties her mind of thought, focusing solely at the task at hand. Knight Commander Greagoir says the soldier's in the war need more enchanted weapons and armour. She's good at enchantments, her thin hands moving deftly as a gentle buzzing echoes in her mind, and she finds the work to be quite agreeable.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the reviews!

A sense of dread runs down Maroth's spine as he stares down the mouth of the dark cave. A rank smell emanates from it, and there's no light aside from his torch.

Fenarel raises his brow, leaning against the cave wall. "Afraid?" he asks.

Maroth shakes his head, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. "Ya daft? Not even a bit," he replies, forcing himself to stroll nonchalantly into the cavern.

"Strange. These ruins look like the shemlen made them, not our People," Fenharel states, looking at the crumbling walls and archways. 

Tiny spiders scurry out from in front of his boots, hiding from the light of his torch. Cobwebs cling to the corners and there's a layer of dust so thick Nesiara would've been frantic with a need to clean the place. He walks softly, taking comfort in the echoing footsteps of his two Dalish companions. He sees tiny relics as he goes; a broken chalice here and a half-shattered gem there. Nothing of value, just the bones of whatever or whoever lived here before, like something even time forgot.

Junar picks up each object carefully though, storing them in a small pack he had brought. "The Keeper will want to inspect any artifacts we find," Junar explains when Maroth glances at him. "Our People have lost so much. We can't leave these things to rot and ruin."

Fenarel stops dead in his tracks, brow furrowed as he stares up at a strange statue. Maroth peers at it, a strange cracked face worn with time and weather staring back. Its expression makes him feel uneasy, a shiver running down his spine.

"What'sit?" he asks.

Fenarel shakes his head. "I think it's one of our old gods, Falon'Din, but...."

Maroth raises his brow. "So? It looks like an ol' elven temple then, w'at's so strange 'bout that?"

Junar blinks before responding. "The architecture is human but the statue belongs to our People," he replies.

Maroth sighs, moving away from the statue. "We're looking fer a mirror, right? That's w'at yer Revas said."

Fenarel and Junar exchange a nervous glance. "Yes, she had another one of her.... visions," Junar replies, shivering.

Maroth raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask. If there's a problem between them, it wasn't his business. He just wants to find the blasted mirror and leave this place. It feels wrong here. Like they've disturbed something ancient and evil. Something that should have stayed forgotten.

A strange scuttling sound echoes above Maroth before he's knocked sideways by Junar. He lands on his face, quickly scrambling to his feet and spinning around. His eyes grow wide as he sees a large spider, twice or more his size, reared up on his back legs, like it's about to pounce and make him its supper. Fear holds him still for only a moment before he brings his spear out and stabs at the beast while arrows pepper it's body.

Maroth grins, rolling his shoulders to release the tension that had been beginning to settle there. "Well, t'at was fun," he says.

The cavern has plenty of spiders lurking in its corners that keep the three battling almost constantly until their muscles protest in pain. But worse than the spiders, even with their venom dripping fangs, are the walking corpses. The bodies shuffle and scrape against the ground as they stumble toward the two elves, their eyes nothing but gaping, empty sockets. One manages to pin Maroth against the wall. Its rotting arms are stronger than they should be considering the... whatever it is is supposed to be dead.

Its teeth are jagged and broken as its jaw snaps dangerously close to his face. A tiny spider crawls out of the its eye and Maroth struggles not to vomit all over the horrible creature.

The corpse explodes in a shower of dust, and Maroth lets out a slow breath of relief. "Thank the Maker for ya, Junar," he swears.

The Dalish shrugs, brow creased together in a thin line. "One would almost assume you were trying to get yourself killed, the way you've been fighting," Junar remarks as they continue walking.

The farther in they go, the fewer enemies they have to fight. And that thought alone makes Maroth shiver, knowing that means something must be further in that has kept the spiders away.

Now, the only thing that assaults them as they walk, footsteps echoing dimly, are a few stray corpses; though their attacks seem halfhearted, for some reason.

Fenarel stops outside a door, head shaking back and forth. "We shouldn't go in there, Tabris." His voice is shaky, and he takes a few steps backward. "Something's not right, rotting and sick, inside that room. It feels like death."

Maroth nods slowly, backing away from the door. "Right," he mumbles.

A burst of energy throws them both back as the door snaps open; a creature made of fire and rage burning before them. An unholy growl emanates from its throat as it lunges at them. Maroth roughly shoves Fenarel out of the way, taking the brunt force of the demon's blow.

His skin burns and itches, and he tries not to claw at it until it's a raw, open wound instead of this terrible burn that tears at his mind and flesh. The pain is beyond anything he's ever experienced, a blinding and stealing his senses.  He can taste it in the back of his throat, the thick smell of his own burning flesh heavy on his tongue. It tastes pungent and raw and he gags, struggling to breath past the worst physical pain he's ever felt. 

He tries to stab at the demon through the pain as Junar and Fenarel bring out their daggers.

But the demon is stronger, and turns them around, pushing them further and further into the room. Maroth feels his back bump against something and turns, startling at his bloodied reflection in a strange, elven mirror. He doesn't have time to study it, or the strange shapes he sees in its surface, as the demon continues to attack relentlessly.

A clawed hand sweeps out at Maroth as he ducks and tumbles away, ending up behind the beast. He grins before ramming his weapon into the demon's back, plunging through where he guesses its heart must be, if it has a heart. A terrible roar echoes throughout the room, bouncing off the stone walls as the creature howls in rage and pain.

Slowly it melts into the ground, fading from view beneath the stone. Junar sighs, leaning back against the mirror with his eyes closed.

Maroth frowns as he notices something staring back at him from behind the glass. Its eyes glow blood red and he sees nothing else except the quick flash of a grin, it's jagged white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Before Maroth has the chance to call out a warning, fear making his heart pound wildly beneath his chest, Junar spins around.

His eyes are wide as he stares at it. "He's... watching me... drawing me... in. Tabris, Fenarel, run! Now!" He shouts the last part, voice growing more frantic with each word.

Maroth doesn't need to be told twice and turns quickly, running back toward the entrance of the cave. His chest burns as his lungs try to take in air but he doesn't stop, just keeps running, spear in hand, from whatever was in that mirror. He only stops after he's reached the exit, sweat pouring down his face. He turns to look at Fenarel and Junar and freezes. 

They're not behind him. He listens, trying to hear the sound of their running footsteps, but there's nothing. He backs away, fear caught in his throat. Why aren't they coming? Where are they? Are they... dead? 

A blast echoes from the cave and Maroth's blood runs cold. If something's happened to them, and he's the only survivor.... Will the Keeper keep her word to protect his daughter? He looks down at his spear and frowns. No, she probably won't, he figures. He brings the point of the weapon to his chest and runs it across his skin, drawing blood until it gushes out, staining the grass. Then he breaks the spear in half and drops it on the ground along with one of his boots and pieces of his tunic. Better they think he died with their clanmates. Then, Laylah will be safe. He bandages his new wound to keep the blood from showing where he's going, heart thundering in his chest.  
  
He turns and runs, fleeing the cave and the mysterious mirror. It's not safe here. He runs until he's out of breath and then keeps running some more, blood leaking through the cloth. He stops only to sleep, hiding in the bushes as his wounds burn and fester. It’s infected. He knows that. The burns are have turned purple and swollen. A strange green discharge leaks from the deepest burns. The wound he caused himself is also leaking pus and feels worse than it did the day he ran the blade across his skin. 

Soon, he figures, a bear or wolf will find him and make a meal out of him. Probably won’t taste too good, infected meat, he muses and almost chuckles at the thought. When the pain doesn’t let him sleep, he continues walking, too weak to run now. A fever burns throughout his body. 

Dizziness begins to overtake him until he collapses in the grass. Maybe this will be how he dies? He deserves it, after what he's done. The sky is bright blue and clear above the trees and he smiles, blood dripping from his lip. If this is what death is like, maybe it's not so bad. A chuckle spills out as he lays there, bleeding out on the grass.

"What is this? You're bleeding on my campsite," a voice says.

Maroth turns his head to look at the speaker. It's a man, and an elf, with orange hair running down to his shoulders. Tattoos line his face but, somehow, they don't seem Dalish. "Who.... are ya?" Maroth asks.

"Aneirin," he replies. "And I'd rather you not die on my campsite, please." 

He struggles to sit up. "Yeah, right, I'll try ta make it somewhere else to die then," he mutters, flinching as more pain rushes through his body.

"That isn't what I meant," the man says with a frown. "Lay still, you fool." 

A calming sensation rushes over him as a blue glow emits from Aneirin's hands. He can feel his skin knitting back together, burns changing from deep infected wounds to a paler pink of new flesh, "A mage? Coulda used ya earlier," he grumbles.

Aneirin grunts. "You're welcome. Take this, you’re not fully healed yet,” he says, handing him a small bottle of some sort of salve. “Now leave, please. I don't care for company."

Maroth frowns. “Yer a grumpy one, ain’t ya?” he mutters. He sniffs the air, suddenly noticing the small pot over the warm fire. “What’s that yer cookin’?” he asks, stomach crumbling in hunger. He’s eaten nothing but berries the last few weeks, when he's eaten at all. He misses fish and food having real flavor.

“Rabbit stew,” Aneirin replies, watching him out of the corner of his eye before sighing. “Yeah, fine. Come eat before you leave.”

Maroth grins, gingerly getting his feet. His body is still sore and weak and he stumbles as he walks closer to the fire. He squats down on the ground, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Aneirin crinkles his nose in disgust.

“You reek,” he says, hovering a hand under his nose. “Like rotting garbage.”

“Uh, thanks. Guess I shoulda taken a bath while dyin’.”

Aneirin rolls his eyes. “That would have helped to keep your wounds from getting infected,” he points out. He turns, rummaging in his pack for a moment. “Here, go wash up and put this on. You’re spoiling my appetite.”

Maroth looks at the clean clothes and rough made bar of soap. “Whatsit? Soap?”

“Do elves from the cities not use soap?” Aneirin quips, one eyebrow raised.

He narrows his eyes but grabs the items. “We do, ya knobhead. Just looks better than this dreck. My wife makes real pretty ones that smell like flowers n shite,” he says, bringing the bar of soap to his nose and sniffing. “This smells like rotten fruit.”

“Rotten fruit would still be an improvement.”

“Eh bugger off,” Maroth grumbles. He sniffs himself and winces. “But mayba ya got a point there. Right then. Where’s the water?”

“I have a bucket behind the bush,” Aneirin replies, pointing to a little spot about three feet away. “The stew should be done by the time you’re finished.”

Maroth shivers as he splashes cold water against his skin. "Oh, name's Tabris," he calls out. "Maroth Tabris."


	5. Chapter 5

The sky is a vivid bright blue as Melina walks close to Wynne across the bridge that will take them to their boat. The sun is so bright, so much brighter than it’s ever seemed through her window. It feels strangely warm against her skin. She remembers this, the feeling of warm sunlight. The way sweat drips down the skin. Hot and bright and full of life.

She hadn’t realized it, but she misses the sun.

A calm breeze blows her curls into a tangled mess and Evelina hands her a tie to keep her hair up. She tries not look around at everything like a wide-eyed child, but she hasn't been outside since she was a little girl. Back then, the boat ride had been frightening as it took her toward Kinloch Hold; now it's equally as frightening rowing away.

She can see the back of Jowan's head as the boy sits next to Uldred. His shoulders are hunched and he’s looking down at his lap. She scowls before sighing, bringing her attention back to the world around her. She looks over the edge of the boat at her warped reflection.

Evelina nudges her with her elbow. "Scared?" she asks.

Melina nods. "A little. But it's so beautiful out here, isn't it?"

Wynne glances at her out of the corner of her eye. "Don't get lost in this temporary freedom, my child. After our duty is fulfilled, we'll be returning once more to where we belong."

"I won't, I promise," Melina whispers. “I know my place. Magic must serve man, not rule over him.”

The grass crunches beneath her feet as they leave the boat, and a yellow butterfly circles a bright purple flower. It really is beautiful, Melina thinks once more. She wishes Jalyn and Cullen could be here too, enjoying the wonders she's seeing.

Jalyn especially would have loved it. She often spoke about how dirty the alienage was, and how her mother would try to plant flowers in small clay pots but they couldn’t grow in such a place.

She watches Jowan carefully as they travel south, a burning distaste clawing around her stomach. She can't stop the thought that it should be Jalyn here, not Jowan. She closes her eyes, the sun warm against her fair skin. A fresh breeze blows, and the smell of flowers fills her senses. She doesn’t remember having smelled such a sweet scent before and her heart aches to be able to name the plant. She’s glad she brought her scraps of paper and charcoal. Maybe later she can draw it, even if it won’t be in color.

She pictures Jalyn's face, scowling in the sunlight. A dull ache has settled itself in her heart, but as she marches dutifully behind Wynne it shifts to a sharper pain, like a thousand needles poking her with each quickened beat.

Melina hides her shaking hands in the heavy cotton folds of her dress, shifting her gaze from the back of Jowan's head to Uldred's. His bald head gleams, like a polished orb under the yellow sun. She lets her shields slip, trying to sense that tingle of dark magic she had felt from him before. But if it's there, it's hidden well because all she can feel is a hollow emptiness from him. With a soft sigh, she puts her shields back in place.

"Why so pensive, Amell?" Evelina says as she slows down to walk beside her.

Melina lets a soft sigh escape her lips as she looks around at the open fields around them. Her mind is a blur of memories of Jalyn and Cullen, heart thundering like war drums beneath her breast as she realizes how alone she is. "It's so big," she says instead, offering the older mage a small smile. "I guess I never thought that it'd be so big out here, is all."

Evelina frowns, peering at her through narrowed eyes. "You sure that's all, kid?"

This time it's Melina who frowns, lips pursed, but she hides it with her mane of white-blonde curls. "Of course, Enchanter," she replies.

"Uh-huh. Well, don't be scared about the battle, kid. They’ll give you a nice, safe job your first one. Likely just healing the wounded after it’s over."

Evalina glances to the sky, a wistful expression crossing her face as they walk. "They say killing anything can take a lot out of you, even if the thing you're killing is just a twisted darkspawn monster. Death leaves a stain on man's soul, and our souls are already stained with sin." Evelina turns, shooting her a quick grin. "Or, that's what someone like Keili would say, right?"

As Evelina chuckles, Melina shakes her head in disagreement. "Kellie only wants to follow the Maker's plan and atone for our magic," she replies, voice whisper soft.

"We don't have anything to atone for," Evelina mutters under her breath, glancing sidelong at the templars marching on either side of them.

Wynne turns her head, eyes solemn and patient. "Be careful of your words, for our protectors hear better than you think, young Enchanter."

She shrugs, shoulders poking through her loose robes. "Right, our protectors," she mocks, voice hushed. Evelina scowls beneath her side fringe, lips in a thin line. "May Andraste bless you, Senior Enchanter, for your ever unwarranted advice."

"Evelina," Melina exclaims, shock making her almost stop dead in her tracks.

Wynne chuckles softly. "Don't worry, child. I'm not so old that I can't beat a former apprentice with my cane for impudence, even if they are an Enchanter themselves now."

Evelina scoffs, rolling her eyes with a tiny smile. "Ah, you're nothing but an old biddy, using your staff as a common walking stick. Besides, if you beat me, I won't be able to fight in the oncoming battle. Such a shame that would be," she replies.

"What makes you presume your skills are so invaluable that you'll be missed? Such arrogance," Wynne quips back, and Melina hides a giggle behind her hand.

Melina can't help but smile as she continues to enjoy their casual banter. She wishes she were bold enough to join in but she doesn't really know what to say. Besides, she enjoys listening and observing. 

“You…. Please, I’m hungry, I need food… .”

Melina startles at the sudden sound, looking around for the source. She sees a man in ragged robes walking toward them. His cheekbones are high and look as if they might poke through his skin and she can see his ribs even through the fabric of his dirty, torn clothes.

Melina scrambles quickly in her pack for some food. “Here, please, eat thi-“

“Blood mage,” a templar growls and Melina freezes at the words.

The stranger’s eyes widen. “Templars? Here?”

Templar Brand draws his sword. “The order dictates,” he begins.

“NO! I won’t let you take me, I _won’t_! You **can’t**!” The man’s eyes are frantic with fear as he grabs a knife from the folds of his robe.

The smell of blood and sulfur color the air as he slices into his hand. “You will not take **me**!”

A strange red light pulses around him. It’s hot, a different kind of heat than the pleasant warmth of the sun. It burns and itches and stinks of something Melina can’t identify. He throws this red light out toward them, knocking the small group of mages and templars back.

Melina lands hard on the ground, tears instantly springing to her eyes. Somehow, she’s one of the few able to get to her feet, most of the group knocked unconscious. “Please, sir, don’t do this,” she pleads, holding out her hands, palms up. “The Maker wouldn’t want-“

“Shut up! There is no Maker! There’s nothing! We’re **all** nothing!” He laughs, blood pouring from his hand. “If the Maker is real, why would he give us magic if it were such a fucking sin? It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. You’ll all die! Then I won’t be hungry! Yes, I’ll feed on your corpses!”

Melina’s eyes widen as she takes a step back. He’s crazy. He must be crazy. The Maker isn’t real? That can’t be true. It’s the blood magic. It has to be. It’s twisted his mind. Her hands shake with fear. No, the Maker has to be real.

She needs Him to be real.

“This ends here,” Templar Brand growls, pointing his sword at the mage.

The man screams as the Smite hits him. With each step Brand takes toward the blood mage, more Smite leaps from his sword. Soon, the man is withering on the ground and screaming in pain.

“No, stop, not again, stop!”

But Brand doesn’t stop until the mage is barely alive, unable to cast a single spell. Not even with blood magic.

Melina rushes over to him. She begins a simple healing spell but Brand stops her, sword pointed at her throat.

“He’s a blood mage,” he growls.

Melina nods. “I know, but he’s in pain.”

“You would help a blood mage?” Brand asks, the accusation and suspicion thick in his voice.

She looks down at the man. His skin is pale and taunt over his skin. He looks days away from dying of starvation. “I don’t think the Maker wants him to be in pain,” she whispers.

“If you help a blood mage, you’re just as guilty as it,” he replies, eyes narrowed.

Another templar joins them. “Miss, you know we have to kill him,” he says, tone gentle. “We have to protect you, remember? What if he corrupts your mind?”

Melina looks up into the warm blue eyes of Templar Rylan. He was the one who brought her to Kinloch Hold. He had let her sit on his shoulders and read her stories on the ship ride from Kirkwall. He had been so kind to her growing up, always sneaking her little treats from the kitchen and comforting her when she missed her mother.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” Melina replies, bowing her head.

Rylan helps her to her feet and pats her head. “There’s a good girl,” he says. “I know you didn’t mean any harm, right?”

She nods. “I only wanted to help.”

“I know, child,” he says. “Come, you don’t need to see what happens next. Let’s go over this way and you can help me wake the others, okay?”

“Please, don’t leave me,” the stranger croaks out. “I don’t want to die. I just wanted something to eat…”

Melina’s hands are shaking as she lets Rylan guide her away. She can’t help a blood mage. They’re evil. She doesn’t want to be corrupted, like them.

“Thank you, Ser Rylan. For protecting me.”

  
~*~*~

The firelight casts an eerie glow over the shadowed faces of her fellow mages, or at least the ones who are still awake. The blood mages screams still echo in her mind and she tries to forget, to put it out of her mind and focus instead on the conversation.

Melina wraps her pale pink shawl tight around her rounded shoulders, staring into the dancing flames as they lap at the logs. Ashes blow in the soft breeze, twirling around with the smoke.

She takes a deep breath as Niall scoots closer to her, tugging at her shawl. Melina offers him a smile and holds out an edge to share the warmth. Niall clears his throat, chewing thoughtfully on his lip as he snuggles under the thin fabric.

"Have you seen a darkspawn before, Senior Enchanters?" he asks, looking toward Wynne and Uldred.

Uldred scoffs, taking a long swig from a metal container. "Of course not. There's been no blight in so long. We're sure to see some on the way to Ostagar, boy."

"Such dramatics, Uldred, my my," Wynne says, shaking her head as her lips twitch upward. "They're said to be tainted creatures, cast down from the once Golden City for their sin of greed and for stepping where mortals should not be seen."

"Chantry myth to scare Thedas into fearing and hating mages twice as much," Uldred shoots back, voice quiet.

"It may be allegory, meant to teach us the dangers of magic and greed, but at least it gives one something to think on." Wynne keeps her back straight as she pokes a stick in to the log, turning it to catch brighter in the flames. Her expression looks far away, as if she can see something in the fire no one else can see.

"I think-" Melina begins, twisting the fabric of her dress in her plump hands.

Evelina scoffs, standing to her feet. "Yer both nutters," she mutters, and Melina's heart clenches at the Denerim accent creeping through. It's the same accent Jalyn would have each time she felt angry, or frustrated.

Melina bites her lips, her sentence lost in the crackling of burning wood and tension. Evelina turns abruptly on her heel, marching over toward her bedroll with a mocking salute to the nearest templar.

Wynne sighs, causing Melina to look toward her mentor. "That girl is going to get herself into trouble one day for that propensity."

"Trouble? Or freedom, Wynne? Which one do you fear more?" Uldred gets to his feet, staring down at them. "You're all fools if you think magic is some sort of sin. Magic is a gift. Meant to serve, and be used, not wasted and locked away in some Maker forsaken tower."

Wynne raises a single eyebrow as she stares up, unblinking, at Uldred. Her body is held with a quiet stillness as the moon casts a white glow on her silver hair. "You speak of this idea of freedom as if it can be so easily obtained. Our magic is dangerous, and more easily twisted to harm than a mere sword or arrow."

Uldred's upper lip curls in clear disgust before he, too, turns toward his bedroll. Niall leans his head into one hand, brow furrowed. "We should just stay away somewhere, away from everyone else."

Jowan frowns, shifting nervously in his spot. Melina startles, having forgotten the man was there, hiding in the shadows like a snake. She glares at him, eyes narrowed as chews on his lip. "I- I think we should just focus on the battles to come," Jowan says, eyes glued to the ground.

 _Blood mage._ She thinks the phrase with more venom than she's ever felt.

Wynne nods, smiling softly. "Truer words have yet to be spoken tonight, child," she says, folding her hands in her lap.

Melina shoots to her feet, curtsying toward Wynne. "I think I'm tired, Enchanter Wynne. Goodnight, and may Andraste protect you." She turns, ignoring Jowan as she walks with faint footsteps and a heavy heart.

The flames twist and dance in the reflection of the shimmering silver armour of a nearby templar. Melina watches it, blanket drawn tight to hide her face. She focuses on the patterns and shapes, thoughts drifting as her eyelids slowly grow leaden with sleep.

She hates him. She knows she shouldn't, that only the Maker has the right to place such judgement. Hate is a strong emotion, screaming at the demons to crowd closer in glee. Melina knows she shouldn't hate anyone, least of all someone who was loved by someone she cares for so deeply.

But she does.


	6. Chapter 6

The books smell old and musty. Dust fills the air. Jalyn looks at the catalog of books with focused intent. Irving had requested the _Tome of Spirit Personages._ Her eyes read each word slowly, carefully, before she walks to west side of the library.

“Uldred will show us the way. Finally, recognition within the Circle and freedom from the scornful eye of the templars. We will not be shunned. Be ready.”

Jalyn’s ears twitch at the sound of Enchanter Gravid’s voice. He must not see her, she thinks.

She moves closer, to make her presence known. Enchanter Prist’s eyes flicker toward her and away again, as if she were nothing more than furniture. She recognizes the dismal, but it doesn’t affect her. She knows mages no longer see her as a person, not really. She is a tool now, a machine to create enchantments and fetch supplies.

She finds it to be quite agreeable. It is simple and keeps her mind focused. She does not miss the chaos that used to be her mind. She remembers fighting against it. She remembers feeling afraid. It doesn’t touch her, these memories. They’re cast with a glow of indifference, as if they must belong to someone else.

_"Is there nothing you wish to say in your defense, girl?" the Knight Commander asks._

_She slowly shakes her head, face pinching in a tight scowl. "Templar pig," she snarls, spitting at his feet. She embraces the anger one final time, enjoying the way it burns in her heart._

_A fist makes contact with the back of her head but Greagoir stops them from hurting her further. She wishes he hadn't._

_They hold her on the cold ground and fear makes her whole body tremble. Her stomach rolls as they bring the lyrium near. It reeks of metal and magic, cloying and strangely sweet._

_She struggles not to vomit at the smell of lyrium as her stomach clenches in pain. A voice whispers a promise in her ear but a burning pain in her head drives it away. She arches her back and thrashes against their hold. A wordless scream rips itself from her lips as pain steals her vision, the brand burning against her flesh. No, it hurts! It hurtsithurtsithurts!_

_And then there is nothing. No pain. No loss. A living doll, ready for orders._

“The time is drawing near. Uldred has brought his intentions to light and a confrontation is all but inevitable. We will separate or walk with our brothers, but we **will be free.”** Enchanter Boson’s voice is filled with greed, a sound she recognizes easily.

“If blood must be shed and used, so be it. I will follow when he calls. The yoke must be released, whatever the cost,” Enchanter Prist whispers, passion colouring her voice.

Blood? They must be referring to blood magic. Blood magic is against Chantry law. The templars would want to know. She turns, book in hand, one thought in her mind.

“We may need sacrifices if things do not go well.”

“The tranquil won’t protest,” Boson replies.

Jalyn understands what they mean. She doesn’t feel fear but neither does she wish to die.

“You there,” Gravid says and she stops. “Come here.”

She stops. “I must bring this book to the First Enchanter,” she replies. She turns, staring at him with unblinking eyes.

He shifts, not quite meeting her gaze. “You-“ the sound of clanking armor makes him stop mid-sentence, skin paling.

“Surana, Irving is looking for you,” the Knight Commander says, eyeing the group with narrowed eyes.

A templar. Yes, she was going to tell them of the blood magic. She looks at the Knight Commander’s grizzled face. If she tells him now, he is alone with the blood mages. They will feel threatened. If they feel threatened, they will attack. One templar against three blood mages is not good odds. She nods her head.

“Yes, I was just heading his way, Knight Commander,” she replies. She will not tell him yet. It would not be logical at this time.

Instead, she heads toward the First Enchanter’s office, carrying the heavy tome in her arms. She will tell the First Enchanter. He will know when it is safe to tell the Knight Commander.

She knocks on the door to his office, two brisk taps against the heavy wood.

“Enter,” a voice calls out.

Jalyn opens the door, turning the handle smoothly and quickly. The only sound as she crosses the space between her and Irving is that of her feet, the hard soles of her slippers clicking against the stone.

“I have brought you your book,” she says, placing it on the desk. “I have heard Enchanters speak of blood magic,” she continues.

Irving startles, eyes widening as he looks up at her. “What? Blood mages, you say?”

“I overheard them in the library. Uldred is leading them,” she replies. “Is there anything else you need?”

Irving blinks up at her. “Sometimes I forget the tranquil have no mind for subtly,” he mutters, placing his hand on his brow. “You have not told the templars, I presume?”

“I have not.”

“Good, good. I will handle this.” He looks at her, brows furrowed. “How strange to see you come to me like this,” he mumbles. “You used to hold so much hatred for me.”

_Irving sits across from her, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes blank. "Hello, child,"he says, deep voice slow and irritating._

_She raises a brow. "I'm still a child then, even after my Harrowing? Or are you being patronizing?" She knows her tone is accusing, and that he's the First Enchanter, but part of her doesn't care. And that part is large enough to let her lips form the words to contradict his false nurturing nature._

_Irving frowns, beard twitching. "Impudent brat," he grumbles. "I brought you here for a purpose. An **important** one."_

_Jalyn raises a brow, amused she's managed to annoy him. "Oh?" she asks, gesturing for him to continue, which only makes him frown harder._

_"The healer, Amell, I am afraid she's been corrupted by a templar recruit." He pauses, beady eyes watching her, cheekbones protruding sharply beneath his beard._

_His nose twitches a moment and she frowns, something tugging at the edges of her memory. She shakes it off, focusing on what he had said, instead. "Amell? You mean Melina? You're joking; corrupted? She's so pure, a friggin fade spirit's gonna whisk her away to the Maker's side when she dies as the long-lost granddaughter of Andraste or something," she replies, rolling her eyes._

_He raises a brow. "That is not dissimilar from what Enchanter Wynne has said," he admits._

_"There ya go, she's s senior Enchanter. She'd know, yeah?”_

_Irving shifts, crossing one leg over the other, nose twitching in a suspiciously mouse like manner. "I have many ways of finding out what the mages of our circle are doing, child," he says, his voice returning to that annoyingly slow pace._

_She resists the urge to slap him. It would only land her in solitary, or worse, depending on the templar sent to punishing her._

_"I hate you," she says with venom dripping from each word._

_His eyes widen. He nods his head slowly. "Interesting. So you would not be interested in helping me, even if it involved saving your... friend?"_

_She leans back, body shaking lightly with suppressed anger. "What do you mean, save her?"_

“I feel nothing, First Enchanter,” she replies. And it’s true. Hatred is a distant memory. Something she does not understand. Hatred was something that burned and her mind holds no space for it now. It was stolen away the moment the brand touched her skin. “Is there anything else you need?”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s been three days since Aneirin had found him and healed him. Thanks to the man’s magic, Maroth is healing quickly. He glances down at his hands. His dark skin is lighter, newer, and sensitive to light and heat. But it no longer hurts to move and he no longer stinks, so he considers it a win all things considered.

There’s a sound of crunching leaves and low, dark growls. Maroth’s hand reaches automatically for his new weapon, a long stick with a knife tied on one end. It’s not as good as the spear he had stolen from Vaughn, but he hopes it will work well enough against whatever demon or beast is near.

“Whatsit?” He whispers the question, glancing over at Aneirin.

The mage shrugs but grabs his staff, slowly getting to his feet.

Large beasts appear from between the trees like shadows. They stand upright like humans but their bodies are covered in thick fur with long snouts and pointed, furry ears.

“Werewolves? I thought they were a legend,” Aneirin whispers, voice full of awe.

“You speak to Swiftrunner. I lead my cursed brothers and sisters. Herrrrrr. Turn back now and tell the Dalish you have failed.”

Maroth’s heart is in his throat as he stares up at the beast. Slowly he gets to his feet. “Right. First a murder mirror an’ now talkin’ werewolves. Right then. Right.” He nods his head quickly. “Uh, w’at we fail at, wolfy?”

The wolf growls low in his throat. “You come for the Lady. Herrrr. You will not touch her! The forest protects us. Leave, now, herrr before we kill you all.”

Aneirin sets his staff down on the ground, movements slow and cautious. “We mean you no harm, werewolf. We don’t know any Dalish.”

One of the other wolves lets out a mournful howl. It sends a shiver down Maroth’s spine.

“You lie! You seek to deceive Swiftrunner!” He answers the howl with one his own, longer and deeper. “Brothers, attack!”

Maroth isn’t a fighter. He’s a thief, and a smuggler, but he’s always avoided fighting when he can. His ma had taught him some basic skills before the shems killed her, but she never taught him how to fight a werewolf. Half asleep guards were nothing compared to this.

_“If yer enemy is stronger than ya, focus on dodgin’, right?”_

He remembers his ma’s advice as if it were yesterday. A large paw swipes at him and moves quickly to the left. Dodge, block, dodge. He just needs to find an opening, a place to strike so he and Aneirin can run.

His eyes search for Aneirin in the chaos as he struggles to avoid the claws and teeth of the beasts. Finally he spots him, pinned to the ground with a werewolf tearing into his chest. Aneirin screams, blood pouring from his wounds.

Maroth dodges another paw swipe and notices the opening he’s been looking for. There’s no werewolves to his left. He can escape. He hesitates, watching Aneirin bleed as more werewolves descend on his broken body. He can’t save him. He’s only one man against five werewolves. What can he do? He turns to his left and runs, guilt burning through him as he crashes through the bushes.

Aneirin had saved him. Healed him. Given him food and a place to sleep despite not wanting company.

Shame creeps its way through his heart. He’s a coward. He couldn’t save Nessy. He couldn’t save Soris or Shianni or Pa or Nelaros. He couldn’t save Fenarel or Junar. And now Aneirin is dead, as well. All he causes is death to everything he touches.

But at least he saved Laylah.

He thinks of his daughter as he continues to run. He remembers her smile and sweet laughter. She’s safe, somewhere far away now. Somewhere she can’t see him fleeing like a coward as another bleeds and die yet again.

“Stop there, flat ear,” a voice says from the shadows. “You come too close to our camp.”

He stares at the woman with an arrow pointed at his face. “W’atsit?”

“The Dalish are here, flat ear. What do you want?”

Dalish? Merrill’s clan? Did…. Did he somehow find them again? “Well, I guess I’d like ta not get eaten by werewolves,” he replies, eyeing the woman carefully. Will Merrill’s clan be angry at what he’d done?

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You found the beasts, did you? And survived?”

“Er, I think so,” he replies, looking around. “Is Keeper Marethari ‘ere?”

“Our Keeper’s name is Zathrian, flat ear.”

Zathrian? A different clan? Maybe… If he’s careful… he can find refuge here. It has to be safe with a clan full of Dalish, right? He can’t possibly endanger them all.

“Er, take me ta yer Keeper, then, lass,” he replies. “I mean ta ‘ave a word with ‘im.”

Her eyes narrow. She takes a few steps closer, the arrow pressing against Maroth’s hooked nose. “How about you talk to my arrows instead?”

Maroth blinks at her, heart beating quickly in his chest. “Rather not, right? Uh, jus’ want ta talk is all. Maker’s honor,” he says, crossing his finger over his heart.

“Easy, Mithra,” another voice says behind her.

Maroth looks over to see another elven woman, this one in layered robes similar to the ones Merrill wore. The Keeper? Definitely a mage, judging by her staff. Her blonde hair is done up in a messy bun, bits of it trailing to frame her full, rounded face. She’s beautiful, and her golden eyes remind him of Nessy.

“Lanaya,” Mithra replies. “This flat ear is an intruder.”

Lanaya smiles. “I was once a flat ear, too, lethallan.”

Mithra shifts a moment, eyes looking down at the ground, before she lowers her bow. “Ir abelas, Lanaya,” she replies. “I was wrong.”

The mage woman smiles, lips parting to reveal partially crooked teeth. “It is alright.” She shifts her gaze to Maroth. “Come, you wanted to speak to Zathrian, right?”

He follows behind her, silent for once. Maroth looks around the Dalish camp, eyes wide and heart beating fast beneath his chest. Many of the Dalish lay on the ground, faces pale beneath their tans. Their vallaslin stands out in stark relief as sweat rolls down their skin. Their cries of pain tug at his heart and he forces himself to look away, to meet this Keeper Zathrian's eyes. The man's gaze is a mix between forlorn and bitter anger, the golden brown orbs filled with obvious pain.

"Shite," Maroth whispers, crossing his heart. "W’at in the Maker's name 'appened ‘ere?"

The Keeper narrows his eyes, gripping his staff tightly in his hand, knuckles white. "Have you not seen, flat ear? The werewolves in the forest attack my people. I haven't the time for whatever it is you want. Go back to your shemlen masters, and leave us be."

Maroth growls low in his throat, clenching his fists. "The shems are not my masters, so watch yer tongue baldy," he replies, voice low and entire body shaking.

Zathrian raises an eyebrow, contempt clear on his lined face. "My people need me. What do you want?”

“Sancta-whatsit called? Er….”

"Sanctuary?" Zathrian asks, shaking his head. "I cannot help you. We can barely help ourselves right now."

Maroth looks around at the frightened Dalish as they care for their injured, heart skipping a beat. "Maybe I can help ya, in exchange?”

Zathrian scoffs, turning away. "You are no warrior, flat ear. You are of no use to us. Begone," he replies, his robes swishing nosily as he walks away.

"Friggin' asshat," Maroth mutters.

A soft chuckle causes him to turn his head, meeting the grey-blue eyes of Lanaya. "W'at ya laughin' at? Think its funny, do ya, the flat ear askin' fer help? Noisy little shites, the lot of ya," he grumbles, glaring.

Lanaya frowns, brow crinkling. "I meant no offense, friend. You must forgive Zathrian, he does not mean to be so short tempered. The plight of our clan weighs heavily on his mind, is all."

Maroth lets out a rude snort, making an obscene gesture at the Keeper's back. "He's still an arsehole, yeah?"

"Oh no, he's actually very kind," Lanaya replies, tone full earnest. "Please, you mustn't be angry. He would offer his help, if there were help to give."

Maroth just shrugs, turning away, shoulders slumped in defeat. He’s alone. Serves him right, really. Does a coward like him deserve help?

The answer seems obvious to him now.

"Wait, friend," Lanaya calls out, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Do you truly mean to help?"

He glances at the pretty lass over his shoulder, offering her a wry grin. "Ya'd accept help from a flat ear like me?"

She bites her lip, clearly hesitating, before nodding her head. "I only want to save my people," she whispers. "Please."

~*~*~

Maroth stares at the two Dalish elves in front of him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. One seems to be an elder, with his dark grey hair pulled back in a short ponytail. The other one is a woman, her dark brown hair cut short and an angry scowl etched on her pointy face. He glances over at Lanaya, lips twisting down in a frown.

"So, w’atsit, then? Two of yer hunters is all ya think I need to slay this "Witherfang", right? Fat lot of chance that has," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. "Foolish."

The one named Panowen narrows her eyes, rubbing the pad of her thumb along her dagger. "My blade is strong, flat ear, and I will slay any of the werewolves that stand in our way," she replies, her voice a deep growl.

"Right, that's a healthy attitude, then." Maroth shakes his head, shifting his gaze to the one called Athras. "An’ w'at say ya, old man?"

Athras frowns, the lines around his eyes deepening. "I may be old, child, but my bow arm is still steady. The creatures murdered my wife, Danyla. You have my oath that I will not waver."

Maroth's eyes widen at the man's words. An image of Nessy flashes in his mind before he dips his head in respect. "Sorry fer yer loss, then," he mumbles.

His heart still aches to hold his wife again. He misses her more than he can admit out loud. He misses her scent, her laughter. He misses waking up next to her and watching her sleep a bit before the morning sun woke her.

He turns again toward Lanaya, heart heavy with trepidation. "Just us three, yeah? Or are ya comin' long, too?"

Lanaya bites her lip, brows furrowed in thought. "Aye, I will come with and offer my magic. Zathrian will not approve, so we should move fast before he notices we are gone."

Maroth nods his head, a quick jerk, before making his way toward the edge of camp. The sun is warm against his skin, its bright glow in stark contrast to the eerie atmosphere of the forest.

"Wait, please. I'm coming with you."

Maroth turns to see a young boy with shaggy blonde hair gripping his bow so tight his knuckles are white. "Yer just' a kid," he says.

"Cammen?" Lanaya smiles but shakes her head. "You're not a hunter yet, da'len. Wait here with Gheyna."

He frowns. "That's why I want to come with. I want to become a real hunter so.... So Gheyna will bond with me."

Maroth lets out a snort. "That some kind of Dalish thing? Kill a beast, get laid afta'?"

Cammen's cheeks turn bright red. "I-I-"

Lanaya looks at the boy thoughtfully for a moment. "Are you sure, Cammen? Werewolves are much more dangerous than the average beast."

He nods quickly, eyes wide. "I'm sure."

Maroth grunts and turns away. "Right, let's get on with it then, yeah?"

It's hard to look at Lanaya; her eyes remind him of his sweet Nessy. He grips the new staff given to him by Master Varathorn tightly in his hand as rabid growls echo around him. Fear stops him cold as a small group of the weres charge them.

Twisting vines shoot up from the ground, gripping one the beasts and holding it still. Maroth lets out a battle cry before leaping toward it, impaling the monster with his spear.

“This is fer Aneirin, ya furry git!”

The beast cries out in pain, a horrid shriek that pierces the air with its morbid sound. A chill runs down Maroth's spine as he fights alongside the Dalish hunters and Lanaya, thanking Andraste as the last one falls. They soon fall into a steady rhythm, walking a few paces before engaging in battle only to repeat the process over again. Even the trees soon rise up against them, their great branches knocking into him as he wonders how in the void you kill a friggin' tree.

Lanaya's magic seems to hold the key as she slays the mad sylvans, eyes narrowed in fevered concentration.

With each step through the forest, he begins to hate nature more and more. He even begins to miss the city, with its crumbling buildings and the stench of desperation that permeated the place. What he wouldn't give for a warm bed and trees that stand still like they’re bloody supposed to.

His body feels weary as they stand before a large tree. Maroth leans on his spear, wiping the sweat from his brow, before speaking. "We oughtta rest," he says, meeting Lanaya's eyes. "I'm bloody damn tired, an’ this forest is giving me ta jitters."

The mage woman is about to answer, lips parted, when the ground shakes beneath their feet.

"What manner of beast be thee that comes before this Elder Tree?"

Cammen screams, dropping his bow and stumbling over himself.

Maroth spins around, eyes wide. His heart skips a beat as he watches the great tree move its branches, staring down at him with wooden eyes. "What the friggin' shite are ya?" 

The tree shifts, leaves shaking as it moves. "Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree," it replies.

Lanaya stares up at it, jaw slack, before she shakes her head. "Mythal protect us," she says, frowning. "Are you a demon? A spirit? Why have you not attacked us as the others have?"

"Ah, thou speakest of the others, how filled they are with hate? I apologize on their behalf; they cannot control their fate."

Maroth swallows, paling as he stares up at the great tree. "Right, it rhymes then? What the frig is up with a rhymin' tree? Blasted forest, full of weird shite. Mirrors, weres, an’ friggin’ talkin’ trees. Nature can fuck off, yeah?” He takes a deep breath and looks up at the The Grand Oak. “Right then, if ya speak, tell us where the weres hide."

He listens as the Elder Tree continues to speak, each sentence rhyming with the last. He asks for help in return, refusing to answer any questions unless they retrieve an acorn.

Maroth shakes his head in disbelief, the surreal notion of a talking tree asking for anything still making his head spin. "A bloody acorn? Yer joking, yeah?" Maroth sighs. "Right. I'm guessin’ I can't just pick up any friggin’ acorn off the ground, then, yeah?"

"It must be the acorn of my own seed, the one stolen by a thief from me. If you complete this task, this deed, then thankful I shall be."

Panowen scoffs, brows knitted tight with anger. "I say we kill this beast and take from it what we need."

The ground begins to vibrate with anger as Athras speaks. "Nay, stay your dagger, da'len. We need not anger the spirit when it has caused us no harm."

The forest floor stops shaking, the rage of the Elder Oak quieted with Athras' words. Maroth nods slowly. "Right. Can this shite get any weirder today? A bloody poet tree-“ He stops. “Poet tree. Fuck.”

Lanaya offers him a small smile. "I agree, it would be wise not to anger the Grand Oak."

The Grand Oak bows, sort of, shaking its leaves at them. "Perform the boon that I ask, and I shall perform thou's task."

Maroth grunts, turning away. "Right then, how hard can it be to find a single friggin' acorn in the middle of a forest?"

Lanaya chuckles. "It's good you've retained your sense of humour, friend," she replies. "But if someone stole it, he cannot be too hard to find." She pauses for a moment, one brow raised. "I hope," she adds, a wry smile twisting her full lips.


	8. Chapter 8

Ostagar is loud and full of strange people and smells Melina doesn’t recognize. It's overwhelming how so many people are gathered in such a wide, open, ancient place. She can hear the mabari war hounds barking in the distance, minstrels sing and play music while the soldiers drink and laugh by the fire. She wants to look at everything at once. The sound of barking dogs reminds her of Cullen, and how he had once told her how much he wanted a mabari all his own but templars weren't allowed pets.

Melina stares with wide eyes, nose crinkling at the sharp astringent smell wafting in the air.

Evelina nudges her shoulder. "That's ale and whiskey you smell, kid."

Melina just nods, eyes still wide as she watches the soldiers. One of them turns to her, face chiseled with a scar running across his nose. He grins at her, winking. She tries to smile back, nerves getting the better of her, and Evelina grabs her wrist.

"Don't look at the men, stupid. Most of 'em haven't seen a woman out of armor in months," she whispers in Melina's ear.

"Oh." Melina chews her lower lip for a moment. "What does that mean, exactly?"

Evelina groans. "For the love of the Maker. It means they're wanting for sex, kid. Just, stay away, alright? You never know with them."

Cheeks flushed and hot, Melina nods her head. "Right, yes, I'm sorry."

The Knight-captain claps his hands, looking out at them with tired eyes. "And off to sleep, all of you. It's late, and we'll need you at your brightest tomorrow morning!"

Tents have already been made for them, so Melina crawls into her bedroll and closes her eyes, exhaustion making her whole body feel heavy. She's not used to marching and her muscles still ache with pain.

As sleep claims her, she slips into the Fade, body weightless and free as she walks around. It feels peaceful, calm, and a glowing orb hovers near a pool of green water. She walks over to it, smiling as she hears it humming. A soft, high-pitched sound that reminds her of singing echoes from the orb. She wonders if this is the same one from her Harrowing. It certainly feels familiar.

Melina curtsies to it before sitting down, staring up at it. She's never felt more relaxed in her life as she listens to the spirit orb talk. No words, but pictures gently flow through her mind, a story lost to time. She responds in kind, sharing memories of her own of her time in the circle.

Melina frowns up at the spirit. "I'm sorry, Ser Spirit. I haven't many memories to share, and none as interesting as your own."

It hums a little, bouncing as it hovers in the air. Another wave of calm washes over and she smiles, grateful the spirit doesn't seem to mind. 

Suddenly, the spirit makes a strange sound, high pitched and keening. Melina turns, eyes widening when she sees the flash of an old woman, hair long and white, before the orb vanishes. Images of a man in silver and blue armour flashes in her mind, carefully styled blonde hair and a rampant griffon on his shield. A sense of urgency to stay close to him overwhelms her, making her body tremble.

As she leaves the Fade, she begins to forget, the memories of this encounter leaving her mind like water trickling out through a sieve. Only one image still remains with her as she blinks, the sunlight pouring in through her open tent and blinding her vision.

The woman had unnaturally yellow eyes.

The hustle and bustle of Ostagar is strange and exciting as Melina walks closely behind Niall and Evelina, exploring the camp with Wynne's permission. Evelina is buying healing potions from a merchant and Melina stays a few feet away, watching and listening to everything around her. She can hear two men talking, one with short brownish black hair and narrow eyes, and the other with long brown hair with a reddish tint to it. She tries not to eavesdrop but she's never heard people talking so freely before.

"Well, you're not who I thought you'd be," the leaner of the two says.

The other man, a shield strapped to his back, raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what did you think I would be?" he asks, tone harboring hints of amusement.

The thin man shrugs. "Not a fancy noble, that's fer sure. The name's Daveth. You're here early, that's good. What's your name, friend?"

"You know I'm a noble but not my name?" he replies, lips quirking into a smile.

Daveth chuckles. "I know you're a Cousland, just not which one," he admits, glancing over at Melina and winking.

"Bryce. My name's Bryce, named after my father," he replies, voice cracking slightly, but the smile kept firmly in place.

"Well, Brycy," Daveth replies, gesturing at Melina, "it looks like we have an audience."

Bryce turns around, catching sight of Melina and grinning. "So we have." He bows low, a polite smile on his face. "Hello, Mi’lady."

Daveth grins, eyes gleaming. "What a lovely woman we have here, Brycy." He offers her another wink before continuing. "You looking for some company, sweetheart?" he asks, voice a rich murmur.

Melina blushes bright pink. "I- I, uh," she stutters out, eyes wide.

Cousland grins, clasping Daveth on the shoulder. "Sorry, my good fellow, but I'm more of a man's man, if you get my meaning," he says with a chuckle. "I'll leave this one for you."

Daveth smiles back. "How kind of you," he quips. "So, any last wishes I can help fulfill before you head into battle? Life is fleeting you know. That pretty face could be decorating some darkspawn spear this time tomorrow."

Niall slides up next to her, glaring at Daveth. "Come on, Melina. Evelina is done shopping, so we should head back to our camp." He tugs at her hand, pulling her away from the man and his suggestion.

Melina nods, curtsying toward Daveth. "Good day, Ser. Pardon me," she whispers, before hurrying away. As they're heading back toward camp, Melina pauses. "Niall, is there a Revered Mother or Chantry sister here?"

Niall nods, jerking his thumb to their left. "Over there, and up those stairs by the merchant stall, by the old statue. Want for company?"

She shakes her head, curtsying before she turns to leave. "No, I just want to pray for a bit before the battle tonight. I'm feeling a bit nervous," she admits, before scampering off in the direction Niall had pointed her. As she goes, she can just barely hear Evelina mutter something in response, a faint whisper she wishes she hasn't heard.

_"How boring."_

Melina listens to the Chantry sister, eyes closed, hands folded neatly in front of her. She lets the words of the Maker wash over her, a soothing balm to her fluttering heart. She's not sure for how many hours she stands there, listening to the sermons, before the sister addresses her.

"Ah, one of the mages fresh from the circle. Will you accept the Maker's blessing?" the woman asks, a kind smile on her wholesome face.

Melina blinks at her, twisting the fabric of her robe in her hands. "But I 'm a mage, will He truly bless me?"

The Sister nods. "I merely pass on the Maker's blessing. He looks kindly on all who will receive Him."

She smiles, heart suddenly lighter than it has been since she left Kinloch Hold. "I would gladly accept your blessing, Sister." She kneels down, bowing her head toward the ground.

"In the name of Andraste, I bless you today. May you find favor in the Maker's eyes," the sister replies, holding a hand above Melina's head. 

Melina gets to her feet and gives the sister a low curtsy. "Thank you, Sister. May the Maker watch over us all in the days to come."

She turns, bumping into a burly man with closely cropped hair. "Beg pardon, Mi'lady," he mumbles, moving to kneel before the Sister. 

"Oh! Uh, of course," she replies, cheeks heating up in embarrassment as she rushes off to find Wynne across the camp.

“Mi’lady? You're a healer, right?”

Melina turns to see a man in simple armor standing near a pen full of dogs. One dog in particular is sectioned off from the rest. His fur is patchy; his eyes milky and dull. She nods her head, curtsying. “Yes, Ser,” she replies.

“Then perhaps you can help. I have this potion made from a flower in the Wilds but I can’t get near the poor dog to give it to him. Can you help me?”

“H-How can I help?” she asks, watching the sick dog. “Is it a healing potion?”

The Kennel master nods. “Yes, Mi’lady. But I need you to muzzle him for me.”

She frowns, turning her gaze toward him. “I’ve never met a dog before.”

“It’s alright. Just go in and let him sniff you. You can use your magic to calm him, if he doesn’t like you.” His smile is gentle as he hands her a leather muzzle.

She takes the muzzle, still unsure, and slowly steps into the pen. She reaches a hand out, palm up. “It’s alright, boy. I won’t hurt you. I promise.”

The dog sniffs her hand before gently licking it. She smiles wide at the feel of his slobbery tongue. “Good boy," she whispers. She fumbles a bit with the clasps on the muzzle but the dog waits patiently. He looks up at her with tired eyes, whimpering slightly as she walks away. “It’s alright. I’ll visit you after the battle, okay?”

The kennel master tries to hand her some coin but she refuses. “We’re not allowed, ser. May the Maker and Andraste bless you.”

She walks toward the mage camp, a small smile on her face as she thinks of the dog. She smiles wider when the sees her mentor, but the smile quickly fades into a frown as she notices Jowan standing there with her.

A heavy weight has settled in Melina's chest. Fear of the battle to come, and eagerness to prove herself, all mix together as she stands dutifully, waiting for orders.

Wynne offers her a small smile. "Alright, you two," she begins, looking back and forth between Melina and Jowan, "we've heard word from Teyrn Loghain that the Tower of Ishal needs guarding. Since this is your first battle, you'll be assigned there to assess your placement in oncoming battles. You need to clear out the tower, if anything enters, so that the Grey Wardens leading the charge to light the signal beacon have a clear route. Understood? The tower should be mostly empty, you're just there to make sure it stays that way."

Melina nods her head, resisting the urge to glare at Jowan with a burning hatred she knows she shouldn't feel. "I will do my best, Wynne," she replies, curtsying to her beloved mentor. “But I thought I would only be healing?:

“Everyone must fight, Melina,” Wynne replies. “Even me. You’ll do fine.”

She hurries to the Tower of Ishal with Jowan at her side, her carved wooden staff in hand. Her heart thunders in her chest. She must not focus on her hatred of Jowan. She blanks out her thoughts, pretending he’s someone else instead. She doesn’t want to let Wynne down.

As soon as they enter the crumbling tower, the stench of darkspawn is thick in the air, and Melina struggles not to gag. Her stomach churns as their innate darkness threatens to overwhelm her. Why is there so many? Where are they coming from? Her magic flickers, unable to draw breath, as one of the monsters charges her. She can't even scream as the mace comes nearer, her vision narrowed on the menacing weapon. The world around her seems to slow as she stands there, paralyzed with fear.

Jowan knocks into her, shoving her out of the way of the darkspawn's blow. They roll on the ground, a tangle of limbs, before he moves to fling a spell at the beast. She doesn't even have time to thank him, shocked to her core that he would try so hard to save her.

He draws up his own magic, and she can feel that it's clean, free of corruption. He's not using blood magic? Frowning, she struggles to her feet to join him in battle against the great beasts, pushing away her doubts. She casts a paralyze glyph on the ground, holding the creature in place as Jowan throws a massive boulder at it with his mana.

A sharp pain shoots through her shoulder, stealing her breath as she falls to her knees. Melina cries out, a high pitched sound that pierces the air. An arrow is stuck in her shoulder, blood pouring from the wound. She turns to see a tall darkspawn looming over her, saliva dripping from its mouth.

"Never fear, Daveth is ‘ere to save the day! And I brought this other lout with me, as well," a voice says, ringing with cocky assurance. He runs his daggers through the tall beast, blood splattering everywhere.

She offers him a smile of gratitude and a small curtsy, and breathes of a small sigh of relief that the battle is over. At least, for now. She tries to cast a healing spell but it can't fix a wound that still has an arrow in it. She frowns, unsure of what to do.

The blonde man with him comes over to her, a hesitant smile on his face. "Hello, Miss. Here, let me help you." He wraps a piece of cloth around the wound. "This is going to hurt, okay?" He breaks off the feathered end of the arrow and tosses it to the ground. "Brace yourself," he warns and pulls on the other end, ripping it through her flesh in a quick, smooth motion.

She screams, tears falling down her cheeks. "Thank you," she says, casting a small healing spell.

"You're the Grey Wardens," she whispers, looking at the blue and silver armor. “Where is the other one? Bryce Cousland?” she asks, curious about the man who had seemed so kind.

Daveth frowns a moment. “Dead,” he answers, tone short.

The blonde smiles gently at her. "Hello, Miss. My name's Alistair. Sorry we don't have time to chat, but we need to reach the top of the tower right away."

There’s something familiar about him, though she can’t quite remember. She doesn't want him to go. Not without her. "Wait! I will join you. I'm a Spirit Healer, you- you might have of need of me," she says, forcing herself to meet Alistair's steady gaze.

Daveth nudges him with his shoulder. "Can't hurt to have a healer with us, right? Come on then, pretty thing, let's go."

Alistair nods, releasing a small sigh. "Alright, we could use the help, all things considered. There aren't even supposed to _be_ any darkspawn here," he mutters with a shake of his head.

Jowan bites his lip next to her before speaking. "I want to go as well. I don't want to stay down here by myself," he says, voice soft. He glances over at Melina, eyes pleading.

She wants to tell him no, that they don't need the help of a blood mage. But he had saved her life a moment ago. She can hardly let him stay alone, where he might die. Jalyn wouldn't have wanted that. She gives him a curt nod before looking away, reaching for her staff on the ground. It feels cool against her hand, and she's grateful for the familiar comfort it brings.

Each floor has more and more darkspawn. She can smell the evil on them. Tainted, twisted creatures. Sweat pours down her face. She’s never fought before. She’s a healer. She doesn’t like fighting. She doesn’t want to kill anyone but these darkspawn are just mindless monsters. Still, it’s a drain on her mana and her willpower as they climb the tower level by level.

Melina’s heart breaks at the sight of a room full of dead hounds, still locked inside their cages. “Poor things,” she whispers. “May you rise up to the Maker’s side where you belong.”

Alistair looks at her. “Are you praying for the dogs, Miss?” he asks, though she senses no judgement in his tone.

She smiles at him. “I pray for everyone, Ser,” she replies.

His eyes widen a moment before he returns her smile. “You have a gentle heart.”

A small blush covers her cheeks. “Thank you,” she whispers.

The final floor is just above them. It’s almost over. They just need to light this beacon and their job is over.

She didn’t fail Wynne. 

Shock holds Melina in place as she stares up at the large, purple ogre. It's hand slowly reaches for her, saliva dripping from its fangs. She lets out a frightened scream as Alistair pushes her aside. The large beast knocks him against the far wall and the sound of his armor clanking against stone sends a terror of shock through her.

"No!" Melina cries out, casting a paralyze glyph."Maker, give me strength," she whispers, pelting it with ice as the Grey Wardens and Jowan attack it from the opposite side. She sends a silent prayer of thanks that Alistair seems to be well enough to continue the fight, though he is limping on one leg.

Quickly she sends a healing spell his way, her mana dwindling. Please, Maker, guide us. Protect us.

She casts spell after spell, fueling her mana with lyrium until she sees the Warden Alistair climb up the beast using his sword and a dagger. He stabs it in the heart and it falls to the ground, shaking the entire room as it lands.

"Come one, we've surely missed the signal by now."

With a heavy heart, Melina watches Alistair light the beacon, sweat rolling down his face. 

Fear makes her heart skip a beat as the door slams open. She turns quickly, feet slipping on the blood soaked floor. An arrow pierces her heart and she can feel her life slipping away as her head hits the ground with a resounding crack. "Maker, take me to your side," she whispers softly, darkness growing strong around her.

As the shadows grow darker, and her life ebbs away, she swears she can see a strange shape forming above her. Her final thoughts contain a question; _is that a dragon?_


	9. Chapter 9

A sliver of moonlight casts a soft glow on the cold, stone tower floors. Jalyn knows that the blood mages are looking for her. They want to make sure she has stayed silent. She knows they are dangerous. She does not feel fear, but she also does not want to die.

"Ser Cullen," she says, voice calm. "I have enchantments I must finish tonight. I require your assistance."

The young templar blinks at her, a confused look on his face. "Me, Miss? I- I uh...."

Jalyn nods. "She trusted you, therefor it would only be logical that you must be trustworthy," she states matter-of-factly. 

Cullen's eyes widen a bit but he nods, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "I will he-help however I can, Miss," he replies.

His armor clanks in rhythm. It's calming, Jalyn likes rhythms and patterns. They're easy to see, easy to understand. Like enchantments.

She enters the work room and lights a candle. It's dangerous work, with this much lyrium. 

"Miss?"

Jalyn looks up, meeting Cullen's gaze. He cheeks are tinted red. His posture is rigid but not aggressive. She remembers him, from before. She hadn't liked him. But Melina did.

"I, uh, what assistance do you need? " he asks, eyebrows furrowing together.

Jalyn looks down at her work, carefully measuring the lyrium. "It is not safe for me to be alone."

Cullen clears his throat as she pours the lyrium into the vial. "Par-pardon my questions, Miss, but what danger is there to you?"

Jalyn frowns at the constant interruptions. She cannot work and talk at the same time. "There are blood mages looking for me. I have informed Irving and he is handling the situation."

She looks up at the sound of his armor shifting abruptly. "Blood mages?" he asks, eyes wide. "Ho-how do you kn-know?" he asks, stutter increasing.

_"I think his stutter is cute. He's very shy," Melina says, smiling._

_Jalyn narrows her eyes. "He's a templar! He's the enemy!"_

_Melina frowns, grabbing Jalyn's hand. "He's not! He helps me. He taught me chess. He's very kind, if only you would give templars a cha-"_

_"I'll always hate the templars," Jalyn says with a growl._

"I overheard a conversation. They are planning something," she replies.

She looks back at her work. Slowly, carefully, she draws a rune on the metal. She grabs the lyrium, preparing for the next step. This part was the most dangerous. A lyrium spill always ends in disaster.

"We should tell the Knight Commander," Cullen says.

Jalyn frowns again. "I cannot work over the sound of your chatter, Ser Cullen. Please be silent while I work. Irving will handle the blood mages."

"Wh-what if he's one of them?"

Jalyn looks up, meeting his nervous brown eyes with her blank green ones. "Do you see all mages as a threat?" she asks.

Cullen bites his lip, rubbing the back of his neck. "No, Miss," he replies. "I know some of you are very gentle."

She knows he means _her_. Melina. Jalyn had spent so many nights before the tranquility restless, unable to sleep, wondering if he really loved Melina or if it was just a game to him. Now that the emotions are gone, the hatred and anger and jealousy, she can see logically that the templar must have loved her. It seems strange to her, how different everything looks without emotion.

"I was not gentle," she replies. Her tone is calm, blank, monotone as always.

Cullen coughs in response. "Uh, I- Tha-that is, I mean..."

"You are uncomfortable. I should not have reminded you."

"No, it's alright. I mean, it isn't alright. I- oh Maker...."

If she weren't tranquil, she would have laughed at him stumbling over his words. "I must finish these enchantments," she replies. "Please stand guard."

He nods. "Yes, I'll watch over you, Miss," he replies, voice soft. "I... For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

_"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault. Maker, I'm sorry."_

Where had she heard that before? A memory flickers in her mind. Another voice, also male. A face comes to mind. Brown eyes, deep and sorrowful, covered by mousy brown hair. Jowan. She remembers him. They took elemental classes together. She can see him, his face cast in shadows from the firelight, as they studied together late at night. He was terrible at incantations.

_His smile is hesitant, soft, familiar. She matches it with her normal smile that's something caught halfway between a grin and a smirk. Her long, cinnamon coloured hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, revealing her pointed ears for all to see and making her gaunt cheeks seem even more hollow._

_But it doesn't matter here that she is just a knife-ear, as the shems back in Denerim had called her. Here, they are all treated with an equal amount of disdain, the shems and elven alike. Here, their magic marked them as different and dangerous and something that needed to be controlled. She hates her magic, but she hates the templars and the chantry twice as much._

_Jowan’s hand is warm in hers as she grabs it, hoping to hide their embrace in the shadows. She pulls him close, back pressing against the wall. Love isn’t allowed, not here. But her heart can’t be controlled by rules and regulations, try as she might to deny it._

_His lips are warm as they touch hers, still uncertain. She meets his uncertainty with the fierceness that comes from the bottom of her heart. She grips the front of his robes so tightly her knuckles turn white, a breathless moan escaping._

_She pulls away, leaving him panting as his eyes dart around, looking for spying templars. “Jalyn… .” He whispers her name and she trembles with pent up desire._

_She doesn't speak, just guides him to a hidden corner where mages go to couple, a place where they can join and no one will see. Behind the stairwell spiders scuttle, but she doesn't mind the audience. She grabs him again, pressing her body against his. A shiver runs down her spine as his hands roam over her arms and back._

_“Jowan,” she says, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Jowan!”_

_He lifts her up, pinning her against the wall. Her legs wrap around his waist automatically. She tilts her head back and a soft moan escapes her lips. His teeth scrape her throat and she trembles. “More,” she says, and it sounds like a plea._

_They both freeze as the sound of clanking armour reaches their ears. They wait with baited-breath as the sound grows closer. A bead of sweat drips into her eyes. She squeezes them shut, praying to the Maker that they don't get caught. Adrenaline is rushing through her, causing her heartbeat to quicken even more._

_The sound fades away. He passes them by, and Jalyn looks into Jowan’s eyes. “Don’t stop,” is all she says, a small grin forming on her lips._

_He smiles back, his grin a little lopsided and unsure. But as he thrusts into her, all of his hesitation goes away. They both know they don't have time to make this sweet; to draw it out with foreplay or gentle kisses. She closes her eyes as pleasure hums through her._

_His hands grip her hips tightly, and she can feel that she’ll have small bruises by the evening. But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the feel of him inside her, their breaths mingling in hot puffs as they reach their climax._

_He rests his forehead against hers, eyelids fluttering. “I love you,” he whispers, and her eyes fly open in panic._

_Love? No. No, it isn’t love. If he loves her, if the templars knew…_

_“What a ridiculous thing to say,” she rasps back, her voice harsh._

_He looks at her as she climbs down, sadness quickly filling his eyes. She scowls, fear making her angry._

_“Why is loving you so ridiculous?” he asks._

_The question is simple. She should be able to answer it easily. She squares her shoulders, about to reply. ‘Because I don’t love you!’ That’s what she **means** to say; what she **needs** to say. The words are there, hovering behind her lips, waiting._

_“Because it’s too dangerous,” is what she says instead, tone full of defeat and shoulders slumped._

_He tries to wrap his arms around her but she wrenches away. "Don't," she warns. She can't. They can't. They both know this._

_She backs away until she hits the wall. Jowan stares at her, liquid gray eyes patient and pleading. His hand reaches out, waiting, hoping._

_She turns her head, refusing it. Her heart skips a beat as she hears him suck in a tight breath._

_If she doesn't look at him, she can resist._

Of course, she had looked.


	10. Chapter 10

"I feel strange magic up ahead. It's not Dalish, and it feels powerful, corrupted." Lanaya shivers slightly and Panowen places a hand on her shoulder.

"Whatever it is, we shall defeat it, lethallan," Panowen says, voice firm.

Athras sighs. "You're so eager to enter battle, da'len. I say we err on the side of caution. Perhaps the one who bares this magic knows of the acorn thief?"

"Or they are the acorn thief," Cammon adds.

Maroth thinks back to Aneirin. His magic wasn't Dalish, either, but it wasn't corrupted. It had saved him. "Come on, then. Let's see what weird shite this one has to offer."

Lanaya chuckles again. "Ah, perhaps when this is over, you could join our clan, my friend? Your sense of humour would be greatly welcomed."

He raises a brow at her as they walk toward a hollowed out tree stump. "Yeah? You accept flat ears, do ya?"

"I was not originally from Zathrian's clan, so the answer is yes," she replies with a wink. "And you can teach us of the ways of our city brethren, perhaps we have much to learn from each other? It seems strange to me, to imagine our people crushed together among so many buildings and shemlen."

Maroth peers into the stump, nodding his head agreeably before a loud cracking noise splinters the air.

"What's this? Who are you? Leave an old man's home alone!"

Maroth blinks at the man suddenly standing before him in tattered robes. "Where in the bloody void did ya come from?" he asks, fear making sweat roll down his neck.

Lanaya steps forward. "Be wary, friend. He holds dark magic in his heart."

The mage's eyes are wild as he swings his arms at nothing in particular. "Questions, questions, always questions. They say it was questions that drove me mad; will it do the same for you?"

"Yer a few eggs short of a dozen, right? Bloody void." Maroth sighs as he begins to regret his life choices. Perhaps wandering the forest on a quest to slay a werewolf, or whatever the void Witherfang happens to be, isn't his smartest plan. "Andraste guide me," he mutters.

Athras steps forward, a hesitant smile crinkling his eyes. "Mythal's blessing, stranger. Might we sit by your fire, perhaps engage in conversation for a moment? We've been travelling all night, and could use a rest for a moment."

"Rest? To lean or lay, sit or stand? Such strange speech, but I have a game I wish to play, yes I do," the mad man replies, a strange giggle bubbling from his lips at the end.

Maroth takes a step back, the hairs on the back of his neck on edge. "Right then. A game, ya say? Hopefully it's not a deadly game, yeah?"

The mage stomps his foot, brows furrowed and eyes narrowed. "No, no, no! A question for a question, an answer for an answer! That's how you play the game!"

Panowen opens her mouth, but Lanaya cuts her off. "So, you want us to answer a question?

The man grins, eyes sparkling dangerously. "Wouldn't I have to ask a question first?"

Panowen scoffs, throwing her hands into the air. "Is that not a question itself, old man?"

"Would you know a question if it were asked?"

Maroth feels his head spinning with frustration. "Ya've got ta be kidding me," he grumbles.

"No! That is not a question! You must play by the rules!" The old man jumps around from foot to foot, arms waving through the air.

"Tread carefully, friend," Lanaya cautions.

"Oh, by the Maker's nutsack. Fine, do ya want to ask a bloody question, then?" Maroth crosses his arms, fed up with talking trees and mad old hermits. "Friggin' hate nature," he adds under his breath.

"I think it is your turn to ask, is it not?"

Maroth stares at the man for a moment, mind caught in a whirl. He just needs to get the damnable acorn, preferably without engaging in more battle. Fighting deranged trees is bad enough, adding a blood mage to the mix isn't on his list of things to do tonight. He wracks his brain for a moment, trying to figure out how in the void to get the acorn, if the man even has it, when an idea hits him. "Do ya have anythin' worth tradin' fer?" he asks, winking at Lanaya.

The Dalish First grins back, nodding appreciatively. "Smart question," she whispers to him.

The old man waves his arms about, spinning in a circle before answering. "Let's see.... I have an acorn, a helmet I found, and a book I finished reading ages ago. Provided you have something interesting in return?"

Maroth chuckles. Finally, something goes right. "I want ta trade fer the acorn, right?"

"And what do you have in return?"

Shite. Maroth glances over at Lanaya, who shrugs her thin shoulders at him. Athras steps forward, a solemn look on his face. He takes a wooden pendant from his pocket, two circling hawks carved into the surface. "This was made by our clan's craftsman. It isn't much, but it's all I have to offer," the elder elf says, handing the amulet to the hermit.

"An amulet, you say? Yes, yes I will take it! Give it here!" The crazed man snatches the amulet from Athras, an insane smile twisting his lips. He turns it over in his hand before biting into it. "Not very tasty, is it?" He lets out a mad laugh before reaching into his pocket, taking out a small acorn. "Here then, take it and be gone!" The mad man tosses the acorn toward them, which Maroth catches deftly.

Maroth raises an eyebrow at Athras. "Thanks," he mumbles. "Right then, let's go talk to the friggin' tree again, yeah?" 

~*~*~

The forest parts easily for Maroth and the Dalish elves now, the magic from the Elder Tree's branch helping them to glide through the trees like water. Even the wild sylvans leave them be, so long as they don't venture too close. Maroth's pulse is fluttering like mad as he grips his weapon, the rough wood bringing him comfort as they go. A thick fog has settled on the forest floor, clinging to their ankles like cobwebs in the early morning light. Exhaustion claws at his mind, regret heavy in his heart. He longs to stop, to rest, after having fought and battled all night. But to stop here, so close to the werewolf lair, would be suicide. 

He throws out his arm, stopping Lanaya in her tracks. A single werewolf stands in front of them, dry blood coating its fur. Its body is hunched in on itself, and tears are leaking from its beady eyes. "You.... errgh.. must turn back, my love," it says, a strange growl laced in its tone.

Athras steps forward, brow puckered and face pinched in sorrow. "Danyla? Ma vhenan?" 

Maroth's eyes widen at the words, heart skipping a beat. "Danyla? Isn't that yer mate?"

The older elf ignores him, stepping closer to the were. "Ma vhenan, what have they done to you?" His voice is filled with sorrow as he collapses to his knees, hands outstretched. Tears fall from his eyes as his whole body trembles.

"Shite," Maroth whispers. "Bloody friggin' shite."

The Were called Danyla scuttles back, shaking her mangy head. "No! You... ergh... mustn't. The weres... ergh.. aren't what they seem. Please, my love, turn back. You must... turn back. Take the clan... errrgh Oh, it burns! Mythal, it burns! Please, kill me now! I can't... errrgh.... the pain!"

Athras shakes his head, eyes wild. "No, Danyla, we can help you. Please, love, let us help you," he begs, scooting closer.

"You don't understand... the weres are not evil... urgh... Go, my love, plea-"

An arrow buzzes by Maroth's ear, piercing Danyla's heart. As the beast falls to the ground, she whispers something Maroth doesn't understand. "Ar lath ma, ma vhenan."

Panowen steps forward, bow in hand, as Athras howls his grief to the sky. "Ir abelas, lathallin," she says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugs her off, getting to his feet with fury in his eyes. "You murdered her," he says with a growl, clutching his own bow tight in his hand. "Do not call me lathallin today."

"The weres killed her long before my arrow touched her, Athras. She was a beast," she retorts, equally as angry.

"She was not a beast! She was my heart," he replies, collapsing to his knees once more and crawling over to her body. "Ma vhenan, ma vhenan," he sobs brokenly, clutching her bloodstained body to his chest. "Ir abelas, ma vhenan. I could not save you."

Maroth kneels down next to him, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Come, friend. If we stay too long, we're sittin' targets, waitin' for 'em weres to pick us off. Can ya stand?"

Athras nods, grabbing a light purple scarf from the corpse of his dead wife. He ties it around his wrist, pressing a soft kiss against the fabric. "Fear not, friend Tabris, I will not falter in our goal. I fight now for Danyla, my bond mate. May the Dread Wolf take all who had a hand in her death," he replies, clenching his fists.

Maroth nods, clutching the man's shoulder. "Good. Use that anger," he replies, remembering the rage he had felt when his own wife was slain. He spits on the ground, green eyes flashing. "Lets go."

Lanaya casts a small spell, sending a wave of calming energy over them all. "Lest our heads become too hot," she says, offering Maroth the barest hint of a smile.

Cammon's face is pale, paler than usual. "Lanaya.... I'm scared," he whispers. "Maybe I shouldn't have come."

Lanaya offers the young boy a small smile. "You're Dalish, Cammon. You'll be fine. We're a strong group, remember?"

He looks at her with tear filled eyes, shaking. "I'm scared," he repeats.

"Come, repeat the Dalish oath with me. It will bring you comfort," Lanaya says. "We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path."

Cammon takes a deep, shaky breath. "We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit."

"Good," Lanaya says. "Do you feel better, da'len?"

Cammon nods, wetting his lips. "A little."

They walk in silence, Athras staying as far from Panowen as he can. His anger keeps his body tense, and Maroth hopes he doesn't turn on his clan mate. He glances around at the trees, surprised to notice that not even the birds are chirping here. No squirrels run through the treetops, and no creatures scuttle along the forest floor. It's as if they've all fled far from the heart of the forest in fear of what lies within. Or for fear of being turned into supper, perhaps.

He pauses as he looks at the crumbling ruins of some ancient place, vines twisting around toppled towers as if they had pulled them to the ground themselves. The places reeks of rotting corpses and dust, the scent clinging to his nostrils as he gags. Lanaya hands him a bit of cloth, pointing to his face. He ties it around, helping to block out the worst of the smell though it still lingers in the air like a warning of death. It reminds him of the cave where they found the mirror. Fear makes his hands shake. Please, Maker, let there be no friggin' mirrors inside.

Maroth lurks on the edge of the doorway leading down, hand hovering in front of him. A roaring growl echos behind him and he spins around on his feet, losing his balance. A great werewolf, about a foot taller than the others, stands behind them; flanked by four other weres. Saliva drips from their mouths as they howl to the sky, the morning sun cresting over the treetops and casting a glow against their bloodstained fur. 

He hears the soft stretching of a bow string. Glancing to his left, he sees Panowen with an arrow knocked and ready, sweat rolling down her forehead. Her face is pinched in fear but her hands are steady as she takes aim. "Andruil, guide my arrow," she whispers.

"The forest has not been vigilante enough, brothers and sisters. Errrrgh, we will drive these _elves_ out of our lair and then we will attack the rest of the Dalish. We will have our revenge!" The wolf howls, claws lashing at the air.

Maroth places a hand on Panowen's arm, holding her from shooting. "Revenge? Ya bloody crazy or somethin'? Ya attacked them," Maroth says, curiosity gnawing at him.

The were growls again, stepping closer, body bent low and prepared to lunge. "You know nothing, errrrgh, elf. The Dalish attacked us long ago," he replies.

"Lies! Emma shem'nan!" Panowen lets an arrow fly, soaring through the air and piercing the wolves shoulder. 

The beast howls its rage and agony, the sound echoing against the trees, before it leaps into battle. Claws rip into Maroth's side, tearing at his flesh as his blood stains the grass. A great burning flows through his body, but he pushes past it, using his spear to ward off more blows. He twists on his feet, turning his body to avoid the werewolf's claws, and lunges his upper torso toward his enemy. The tip of the spear pierces flesh when a great white wolf pounces on him, knocking him to the ground with an angry growl. The small wolf has strange green vines wrapping around its paws, but otherwise looks like a normal wolf. It barks and snaps its jaw at Maroth's face before leading the wolves in a retreat further into the ruins.

"Andraste's ass, I thought we was done fer there," he whispers, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Pain, like fire in his blood, spreads through his body and he doubles over as a cry rips itself from his lips. "Maker, w'at's happenin'?"

Lanaya rests a hand on his shoulder, sending waves of magic through him, but it doesn't ease the rapid burning. "Friggin' void, it feels like I'm on fire," he says, clutching his hair in his hands.

"You have the curse in you, Tabris. If we're to keep you from turning, we have to hurry. Andruil guide our steps," Lanaya replies, cupping his cheek in her hand. "Can you walk?"

He flinches as he looks into her eyes, her face so similar to Nesiara that it sends a pain even sharper than the curse through his heart. "Yeah, I can walk," he grumbles, slowly getting to his feet.

Cammon hands him a small flash of water which he gulps down gratefully. Cursed... Is he going to turn into a werewolf? After everything he's been through, he can't seem to feel afraid. Laughter bubbles deep within him but he holds it down. He glances at Panowen. If he shows wolfish signs, she might kill him. He chokes back a laugh. They used to call him the Dark Wolf, back in Denerim. Guess it might come true now.

The pain doesn't ease up, despite Lanaya's magic, as he continues toward the ruin. The stairs leading down into the depths of it are dark and covered with rotting vines that smell of death. Athras carries a torch, lighting the way with flickering flames that do little to provide solid light. The entire place has a strange feel to it, a dark tone to the air that sends a shiver down Maroth's spine.

Werewolves attack at every corner, tearing into the small group of elves with a deep fury, matched only by the fury of the elves who have lost those they love. Panowen and Athras both use their daggers instead of their bows, their faces twisted with anger as they spill the blood of the weres. Maroth's pain slows him, making him hesitate as he drives his spear into the heart of each twisted beast. Their howls call to him, and he finds himself wanting to answer that howl, to lift his face and cry out in unison with them. He clenches his fist, struggling not to give into the curse that burns through him. Looking down at his hands, he can see the hair thickening, turning a dark grey, and becoming coarse in texture as his body shifts. Bones shift and pop beneath his arms, and he pulls down his sleeves to hide the slow change.

"Maker, please, protect me," he whispers, crossing his heart with a hairy hand.

Sweat drips from his face as he hears a strange growl, deep and low that vibrates across the ground. They're so close to reaching the lower levels. He can feel it. Pebbles and debris shake beneath his feet as he exchanges a worried glance with Lanaya.

"W'at in the void is that?" he asks, fear making shock waves through his body.

Lanaya shrugs her shoulders, gripping her staff so tight her knuckles are white against the grey-blue bark. He steps in front of her, walking toward the source of the sound. All the other tunnels have been explored, and there's no way down to where the werewolves live, so this is their only chance. There has to be a way down, somewhere.

"Maker's hairy nutsack, w'at in the void...." Maroth crosses his heart, fear making his body tremble as he watches a small dragon land in front of them. She spreads her great, purple wings and roars. The sound sends a cold chill down his spine.

Lanaya brings up her magic, a warm energizing wind that blows through his mind. He squares his shoulders, pain still strong in his veins, and lets out a fierce battle cry as he charges the beast. "Frig off, dragon!"

"Andruil, guide my arrows," Athras shouts, pelting the dragon with arrows lit aflame by Lanaya's magic.

A claw smacks into Maroth, digging deep gashes into his chest that burn worse than the curse. Blood pours from the wounds as dizziness overwhelms him. He fights past it, picturing his daughter's sweet face in his mind, and gets back up. He takes his spear, wood starting to crack and splinter from repeated blows, and throws it at the dragon's throat. She cries out in pain, clawing at her own throat to try and pull out the weapon but dragon's claws aren't meant for such delicate work. Grabbing a dagger from his leg, he rushes the beast while she's distracted, tearing a great gash across her hind leg. He digs in deep, using it as leverage to climb her flank, sweat and blood pouring off his body.

The dragon whips its body around and Maroth nearly flies off, grabbing a hold of her scales and his dagger, praying to the Maker all the while. "Lanaya, distract ta beasty," he calls out and is grateful when he smells the stench of burning meat as Lanaya throws a fireball at its face. He climbs up the body of the dragon, using his daggers to pierce the flesh as he goes, nearly falling more than once. Soon he reaches the thick meaty part that leads up to her neck, hoping to slit the dragon's throat and finish the battle. She lets out a broken scream, somehow still able to make noise with the spear in her neck, and flaps her wings, moving up and up toward the ceiling. 

"Shite," Maroth whispers as he starts to slip, using his daggers to slow his decent. Blood from the dragon's body sprays his face as he slides down her body, until there is no body left to fall down. 

He looks down as he falls, the stone floor rushing toward him. His heart in his throat as he closes his eyes tight, fear a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. Suddenly, he hits a heavy force, bones cracking but not breaking. Maroth swallows before opening his eyes, one at a time, and is surprised to see the stone floor still a few feet away as he hovers in midair.

"Wat the friggin' shite?" His eyes are wild as he looks around, trying to figure out how in the void he's learned to fly.

Lanaya breaths a sigh of relief. "My magic holds you there, thank the Gods. Here, I'm going to let you down now, carefully."

Cammon chuckles a little. "You look so scared, I'm sorry," he says when Maroth shoots him a nasty glare.

Maroth holds his breath until his feet touch solid ground again. He collapses to his knees and kisses the floor, wincing in pain as he does. "Oh, sweet Andraste's tits, I neva want ta do that again," he says with passion. "Thank ya, Lanaya."

A calm feeling settles into the back of his brain, wounds slowly healing. Blood still drips from his body, but he's at least partially healed. Lanaya frowns, inspecting the wounds on his chest. She clucks her tongue, clearly annoyed. "If only I had the power of a Spirit Healer, I could heal you fully," she whispers, her fingers soft against the jagged edges of his wound.

Maroth grabs her hand and kisses her knuckles, a small smirk playing with the edges of his lips. "Lanaya, ya saved my life. Thank ya," he repeats, meeting her eyes.

A blush covers her cheeks and she hurriedly pulls away, straightening her robes as she goes to check on Athras and Panowen. He chuckles, wincing at the pain in his ribs as he gets to his feet. The dragon has flown away, out a small gab that leads to the forest, and with it the beast has taken his spear and both his daggers. Shite. 

He limps over to the group, a grin in place. "So, it seems the friggin' dragon has taken off with my weapons," he says sheepishly. How many times has he lost his weapon since leaving the alienage? Three? Blast.

Panowen frowns, handing over her daggers. "It was foolish to climb the beast so," she admonishes, a angry scowl etched on her face as she grabs her bow and arrow. 

Maroth shrugs, nodding. "Probably. Got the beasty ta leave without killin' us, right? Right. So, looks like we found our entrance ta the werewolf lair," he replies, pointing toward the back of the room.


	11. Chapter 11

Melina can hear a fire crackling, the sound heart wrenching in its familiarity. She's dead. Why is there a fire? Is she back at Kinloch Hold, somehow? Her eyes are leaden, painful and heavy, as she lies perfectly still. She can feel a scratchy wool blanket covering her body, rough against her bare skin. _Bare skin?_

She's naked, down to nothing but her breast band and panties. She struggles to remember what happened, some clue that might point to where she's at, but the last thing she can recall is a darkspawn arrow piercing her heart and the shadow of some great creature. 

A soft shuffling sound alerts her that she isn't alone, but she keeps her eyes closed tight. She focuses instead on the smells around her. Sweet smoke wafts throughout the room, a scent she places as a magical incense, meant to calm and relax the mind before meditation. It's sweet with a hint of bitterness behind it, made of berries Wynne had taught her were found in the Korcari Wilds. Behind the incense though is a darker scent, of dust and old bones. She recognizes the smell of old bones from the Tower of Ishal, where they had found a few skeletons left to rot over the ages. Her heart skips a beat as fear pulses through her. Why is that smell here? Is she in danger? A thousand thoughts swirl through her mind as she listens to the soft scuffling of feet against a wooden floor.

"You are awake, are you not? Come then, my mother wishes to see you," a voice says, haughty and commanding with a strange accent she can't quite place.

Melina slowly opens her eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight pouring in through an open window. "Pa-Pardon me, Mi'lady, but who are you?" 

The woman peers down her nose at her, dark brown hair twisted in a messy knot at the back of her head. Her yellow eyes are piercing and sit etched in a elegantly curved face. Her robes are tattered and covered in ink black feathers, adding to the exotic beauty the woman possesses. "You may call me Morrigan, if you must," she replies, tone clipped as she stirs a large cauldron over the fire. "Such manners you have, considering I can smell your fear from across the room."

Melina's stomach growls in hunger as the smell of stew reaches her nose. "I'm sorry, Mi'lady Morrigan," she replies, earning a scoff from the girl.

"Just Morrigan, if you please," she replies. She ladles some of the stew into a small wooden bowl. "You are hungry, are you not? Here, eat before you go. My mother is outside and she wishes to see you."

Melina takes the bowl of stew, surprised at the burst of flavours across her tongue. The stew back in Kinloch Hold is never this tasty. "Thank you," she whispers. She finishes the bowl quickly, savoring every bite. "I'm sorry to bother you, Morrigan, but can you tell me what happened? I- I thought I was dead," Melina asks, confusion still a thick fog in her brain.

Morrigan nods in her direction. "You were gravelly injured, but my mother has healed your wounds and rescued you from the tower. The man who was to respond to the Warden's signal... quit the field. It was a massacre."

Melina's eyes widen in shock. "Massacre? Everyone is dead?" Images of Niall, Evelina, and Wynne flash through her mind, quickly followed by the faces of the templars who had escorted them. Rylan.... No. He can't be dead, right? Wynne and Rylan... They have to be alive. She doesn't want to lose the only parental figures she had at Kinloch Hold. Cold tears spill from her eyes and she buries her head in her hands. "Maker, it can't be," she whispers, pain constricting her heart.

Morrigan sighs heavily. "There were some survivors, if that pleases you. They are outside, with my mother. Go then, and see them. Perhaps that will ease your ridiculous crying."

Melina's head shoots up at her harsh words, brow furrowed in anger. "My _friends_ were in that battle! It's not ridiculous to mourn their loss!" She glares at the other mage, anger running hot through her veins. "How can you be so callous?" 

"Because there is a time and a place for mourning. 'Tis not the time now to do so. You must gather your senses and be strong, or you _will_ fail," Morrigan replies, rolling her eyes as she speaks.

"I will not fail," she replies, swinging her feet off the edge of the bed. "Where are my clothes?"

"They were ruined in the battle. Here, this will do," Morrigan replies, throwing cloth that reeks of swamp water her way. 

Melina holds the clothing up in horror. "This will barely cover me," she whispers, cheeks burning in embarrassment. 

"It has strong enchantments, and it will be all the armour you need," Morrigan replies with a shrug of her thin shoulders. "Now hurry, lest you make your companions wait any longer."

The yellow and green cloth fits snugly over her curves, stretching tight over stomach. Her breasts are the only parts of her that fit well, being smaller than the rest of her considerable curves. She frowns as she looks down at herself, grateful that at least the stockings seem to cover her thighs and calves. "Maker preserve me," she says, crossing her heart.

She opens the door and the thick smell of musty swamp hits her in the face, sharp and strong to her nose. Mosquitoes buzz around her face, eager for her blood. She swats at them, brow knitted together in a small frown. She decides she doesn't like swamps very much. 

"You- You're alive," Alistair whispers, face slack with astonishment.

Daveth winks over at her, a ready grin in place. "Aye, good to see such a pretty lass survived this mess, right?"

She curtsies toward them, glad to see at least some of the Wardens alive. She glances around, and frowns harder when she sees Jowan standing next to an elder woman with long, white hair. Her eyes are bright yellow, and something tugs at Melina's memory, struggling to break through. She shakes her head, curls bouncing, and curtsies toward the old woman. "I hear from your daughter we have you to thank for saving our lives. Maker's blessing to you, Milady, and my deepest thanks."

The old woman laughs, a hint of madness behind the sound. "Ah, such manners. Call me Flemeth, child, most do these days."

Daveth turns slowly, eyes opened wide with fear that rolls off him in thick waves. "Flemeth? As in, the Witch of the Wilds? You're going to eat us, aren't you?"

Alistair nudges him with his shoulder. "Hush, Daveth. Are you trying to anger her? She did save our lives."

Flemeth scowls at the pair. "I am also right here, and am not so old I cannot hear you, boy." There's a deep growl to the old woman's voice, and Melina can feel dark magic radiating off her.

"Please, ma'am, I'm sure they meant no harm," Melina says, trying to assure the elder mage before something terrible happens. 

Flemeth turns her bright yellow eyes back toward Melina. "Now there's a good girl, who knows how to properly give thanks when it is due. Oh don't mind me, you four should talk among yourselves. You have a battle to plan, do you not?"

Her whole world feels flipped upside down. Just the other day, she had been home inside Kinloch Hold. Everything was in order, everything had its place. There was a daily routine she finds comforting, and now it's all been ripped away. This was just supposed to be a brief moment where she came outside, healed the wounded soldiers, and went back home again. 

And now everyone is dead. Pain, like a thousand sharp needles pricking her heart, shudders through her body. _Please, Maker, please let my friends be alright,_ she prays silently, barely listening as Daveth and Alistair talk about how hopeless everything looks.

Alistair throws his hands up in frustration. "No Grey Warden has ever defeated a Blight without the armies of a half dozen nations at his back. We couldn't even find the treaties before your Joining, what in the Maker's name are we supposed to do?" Alistair asks, voice raising in a fevered pitch as he runs his hands through his short blonde hair.

Daveth frowns, stroking his chin in thought. "Brycy's refusal to venture further into the Wilds was inconvenient, but I think he figured someone else would come later."

Alistair cuts him a glare, eyes narrowed. "Well now there is no later," he says with a soft growl.

"Isn't _now_ later?" Daveth quips back, smirking at his fellow Warden. "Why can't we search now?"

Jowan clears his throat, wringing his hands as he steps forward and Melina can feel the nervous tension rolling off him in lukewarm waves. "Uh, I know my opinion probably isn't wanted but... You can't search the Wilds now; they've been overrun with darkspawn."

"Our mage friend here is right, Daveth." Alistair sighs again, looking up toward the sky. "I'm so sorry, Duncan" he whispers, voice full of pain and grief.

Flemeth starts to cackle, the sound echoing strangely in the tiny clearing. "Treaties? I have them, and have kept them safe for just this moment."

Alistair frowns, regarding her carefully as his hand moves to his sword at his side. "Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?" His tone is laden with incredulity as he scoffs lightly. 

The mad witch's lips twist down, yellow eyes gleaming. " _You_ are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's eyes wide- either way, one's a fool." She chuckles again, seemingly amused at something.

"Right," Alistair replies, drawing out the word slowly and taking a few steps back. "Well, you have the treaties, then? That's, uh, a good thing."

Melina gathers her courage again, unsure she's even wanted here right now. "Thank you again," she says, offering the crazed woman a small curtsy. "You've been very helpful and kind."

A tinkling laughter sounds from behind her, and she spins around- almost losing her balance. Morrigan's arm shoots out, steadying her as she continues to laugh. "Kind? My mother has been called many things, 'tis true, but "kind" is not amongst them."

Flemeth smirks. "This is the thanks I get for feeding you and putting up with you for this long? Bah. May your child one day treat you the same."

"Feed me, she says. Without me, I swear she shall be caked in dirt and eating tree bark inside of a month!" Morrigan's voice holds a hint of amusement to it, full lips turning into a small smile as she talks with her mother.

The interaction baffles Melina as she stands there, watching them. Her memories of her own mother are faint and mostly forgotten, faded around the edges and dulled with time and distance. She remembers she had hair much the same as Melina does now, and a bright smile whenever there were visitors. She was polite, and kind, Melina believes this with all her heart. Her father is a blank spot in her head, a shadowy figure she can't bring to mind. She can't remember his smile or the colour of his eyes, the way he laughed or spoke. She only remembers his anger and the way his hand felt when he struck her. Guilt tears at her for not remembering more, so she holds on to what she has with a vice-like grip.

But Morrigan and Flemeth... the way they talk to each other seems strange to Melina, and not at all like a mother and daughter. She continues to listen to the chatter as the Wardens decide their plans, discussing battle tactics and allies. She exchanges a glance with Jowan, and she can tell even without feeling it that he is as worried as she is about their future. 

"Alight, then it's decided! We're off to save Ferelden," Daveth exclaims, clapping his hands together. "Should be easy, right?"

Alistair rolls his eyes. "Right. Easy. Well, thank you both for rescuing us. I suppose we should be on our way."

"Wait, Ser Alistair!" Melina steps forward, biting her lip.

He flinches at the title, shaking his head. "Just Alistair, please, Miss."

"Oh, of course. Alistair, might I join you once again? I- have nowhere else to go, and I'd like to help, if I can."

Alistair and Daveth exchange a glance as Melina stands perfectly still, heart in her throat. She feels almost dizzy with anticipation, praying to the Maker they'll take her with. She doesn't want to be alone. She wants to help.

"We could use all the help we can get," Daveth mutters, scrunching up his face as he sighs. "But you'll need to be.... better at fighting if you're to come along, sweetheart."

Her cheeks turn bright red at his words as she remembers Alistair being thrown by the ogre. "I will, I promise," she replies, head bowed and curls falling forward to hide her face and shame.

Alistair places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll do fine. You've never been out of the circle, have you?" he asks, and she looks up to meet his eyes. 

Slowly she shakes her head, holding back the tears that threaten to spill. "No, Ser," she whispers. He offers her a small smile, patting her on the head. 

"Alright, let's go." He turns to Jowan, smile still in place. "Are you ready, as well?" 

Melina scowls, but remains quiet. She knows in her heart that they can't leave Jowan behind, and she sends out a silent prayer that he truly has renounced the wicked ways of blood magic. Jowan just nods, eyes wide with shock, rubbing a hand through his thick brown hair.

Flemeth lets out a low chuckle and the sound sends shivers down Melina's spine. "I have but one more thing to offer you, Grey Wardens," she whispers, gesturing toward her daughter.

Morrigan's eyes widen. "Mother, this is not how I wanted this," she insists, hands trembling slightly.

Melina watches as the two banter back and forth, Flemeth insisting that the Grey Wardens need her or else they will fall. In the end, Morrigan agrees, despite Alistair's protests against her joining. In the end, they all go, except for Flemeth. Melina stays toward the back of their small group as they head toward a village that Morrigan had called "Lothering". Daveth slows his speed until he matches her pace. He bumps her shoulder with his, a ready grin on his face. He doesn't say anything, just walks beside her as they make their way through the Wilds.

It isn't long before a small group of darkspawn attack, their blind hatred thick and hot in the air. Melina furrows her brow as she squares her shoulders. This is her chance to prove she won't falter, that she isn't more of a liability than a help. She casts a glyph of repulsion on the ground which knocks two of the larger monster back. Alistair charges them, slamming his shield into the tallest one. Daveth stays by her side, switching his wickedly curved daggers for a bow and arrow as he begins firing into a squat beast before it can stab Morrigan. Morrigan herself transforms into a large spider, and Melina blanches at the sight. She swallows, trying to ignore the forbidden magic taking place as Morrigan-spider leaps at the darkspawn in front of her. Melina casts another glyph, this one of paralysis, and holds the mage-like darkspawn in it's place while Jowan peppers it with ice pellets. 

A dog howls as it runs up, leaping into battle. His teeth tear into the darkspawn's flesh, splattering blood across his brown muzzle. He lets out a small yip as a dagger pierces his side, but it doesn't stop the dog from ripping out the darkspawn's throat, howling in victory when hes done.

Melina stumbles toward the dog, all the monsters finally slain, and her body feels weak with sadness. The wound on it's body are deep as she wraps her arms around his neck, breathing in the musky scent of hound. "Don't worry, beasty, I can heal you," she whispers into his fur.

She closes her eyes, leaning back on her heels. She draws up a bit of mana from the fade, a cool tendril of magic, listening for a fade spirit. She can hear the tinkling of bells and smiles, gently coaxing the spirit closer, asking for its help rather than forcing it against its will. Gradually it lends her its strength, adding to the tendril of mana and growing the power she holds. She gathers all that energy up, holding it in her mind, and slowly pushes it into the mabari. She focuses her mind on the images of knitting the skin back together, healing the broken bones, and forcing the veins to meld back together until the beast is whole again.

When Melina opens her eyes again, the mabari greets her by licking her face, thick globs of slobber on his tongue. She falls over, landing on her butt, and a giggle bursts forth from her lips with joy. "You're welcome, Ser Beasty," she says, scratching the dog behind his ears.

Alistair's lips are parted as he watches her. "Maker's Breath, but you truly are a Spirit Healer," he replies, a strange lilt to his voice. "We are perhaps more lucky than I first thought to have you along, Miss."

Daveth laughs, the sound loud and boisterous as he hands his fellow Warden a small bit of cloth. "Here, to wipe the blood, and drool, from your face lover boy." He shakes his head, glancing over at Morrigan, who is still in spider form, before winking back at Melina. "I think that hound has bonded with you, sweetheart. Lucky girl, you are."

Melina cocks her head, confused. "I think this is the dog I helped at Ostagar. What does bonded mean?"

"That's what Mabari do. My da always said they were clever enough to know how to talk, but wise enough to know not to. They're a picky breed, too, and they pick their masters from the best. That's a noble hound, it is," Daveth replies.

Melina's eyes widen as she looks to Jowan. He offers her a small smile of encouragement before she looks away. "Thank you, Ser Beasty," she whispers to the dog, burying her face in its short, musky fur once more.

Jowan shuffles next to her. "Is that it's name now? Ser Beasty?"

She glares up at him, an answer ready on her tongue, but Alistair answers first. "A noble name for a mangy beasty," he says, winking down at her.

A blush covers her cheeks and she finds herself unable to respond. She follows close behind the group as they walk to Lothering, pondering a name for her dog.

Her dog. She has a dog all her own. Just like Cullen had always wanted for himself. But mages aren't allowed to have dogs. She looks down at the hound. What will happen to him when the war is over and she goes back to Kinloch Hold? Can a mabari bond to someone new? Will it hurt him to be parted from her? Maybe the Knight Commander will let her keep him, if she's really good and helps the Wardens.

"You there, stop. You have to pay a toll or you can't cross here," a man says, greasy hair cropped close to his head.

Melina startles at the sudden sound. "But Ser, we have no money," she says.

Beasty starts to growl, hackles raised, and she grabs him by the collar. "Shh, no, it's okay. We don't attack people, Ser Beasty. Only darkspawn, okay?"

Daveth grunts, hand on his dagger. "We're not givin' ya any money," he says, eyes narrowed.

"But, Ser Daveth, shouldn't we obey the guards?" Melina asks, still holding tight to Beasty's collar.

Daveth doesn't look away from the group of men in front of them. "Don't call me Ser, dammit. And they're not guards, they're thieves preying on those fleeing the Blight. Bloody vultures," he says, growling low in his throat.

Alistair nods in agreement. "Look, we don't want any trouble here. Just let us pass and we'll be on our way."

"We should kill these fools and make an example of them," Morrigan scoffs.

Melina looks at her in horror. "You can't just murder people!" she exclaims. "The Maker-"

Morrigan cuts her off with a sharp glare. "I do not believe in your ridiculous maker," she replies. "Foolish girl."

Melina frowns, turning away from Morrigan. How could anyone not believe in Him? Especially a mage? All the beauty in the world... Of course the Maker is real. How else could such wondrous things exist? She shakes away the thought. It doesn't matter. Morrigan will understand, in her own time. Wynne always says you can't force anyone to believe. Faith needs to come from the heart.

Jowan steps forward, wringing his hands. "I know my opinion probably doesn't matter much but maybe we should just find a different route?"

"Coward," Morrigan mutters.

Melina agrees with him, much to her own surprise, but... the thought of them preying on more innocent people.... "We should tell the guards," she whispers to Alistair. "It's not right, to steal from helpless refugees."

He shakes his head, two short jerks, and puts a finger to his lips. She sighs, but stays silent while Daveth negotiates with the men. She notices a bit of silver armor on a body nearby and frowns. The armor... 

"A templar," she says, trying to rush past the men.

"Now now, pretty thing, we didn't say you could pass," one of them says, grabbing her arm. 

She wrenches it from his grip. "I have to help him!" she says, running toward the man.

When she reaches him, she can see it's too late. He's dead, eyes starring up at the sky. She closes them with one hand, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker's right hand, and be Forgiven." She crosses her heart at the end of the prayer.

Melina glares up at the men. "You... you all murdered him! He's a templar! How could you?"

One man shuffles awkwardly. "Why yous care so much about a templar anyway?"

"Because they protect us," she replies, tears still streaming down her cheeks. "They only want to protect us and you murdered him."

Alistair frowns, watching her carefully. "I didn't know mages actually liked templars," he says, watching her curiously.

She straightens her spine. "The templars have always been kind to me," she whispers.

"A mage, eh? I think your toll just went up," the leader of the gang says with a grin.

Daveth groans, running a hand down his face. "Fuck it. I'm not sparing any coin for a vulture. Guess we'll have to show you lot why they fear the Grey Wardens," he says, pulling out both daggers.

The fight doesn't take long. The small gang of thieves is no match for three mages, a mabari, and two wardens. Soon, they're surrounded by dead bodies. Melina falls to her knees, hands clasped together. "Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost." The Chant of Light brings her some comfort, the words calming and familiar.

She reaches for the dead templar again, looking for some sort of identification. All she finds is a letter so she keeps it in her small pack. "I will honor your memory, Ser Henric."

Daveth frowns at her as she gets to her feet. "Listen, I'm glad to have ya along and all, but you caused us a bit of trouble just now. I hope you're not going to keep that up?" he asks.

"Hey, leave the girl alone," Alistair interrupts. "She lost a lot at Ostagar, too."

She curtsies, face red. "I'm sorry," she whispers. 

She watches Alistair carefully as they walk through Lothering. His face is lined with sadness and grief. She wonders what he must have lost, aside from his fellow Wardens. Was there someone he loved in the battle? She continues to watch him as he secretly gives an elven family some coin when Daveth isn't looking. She watches him comfort a small boy who lost his mother, pulling a treat out his pocket and urging him to go to the Chantry. He never leads, staying back and letting Daveth do the talking and bargaining, but he helps in his own way when he thinks nobody is watching. He helps the old woman with health potions, gives the old man some poison for his wolf problem, and convinces Daveth to make traps for a frightened young girl. Melina smiles at his kind, gentle nature. She feels safe, knowing Alistair is with them. She's glad that he survived and is with them now. She thinks to herself, it would have been so much more lonely if he wasn't there. 

She sits with him, alone, outside of the Chantry while they wait for Daveth and the others. She strokes Beasty's head, watching a butterfly dance from flower to flower. She feels better now, after having found Ser Donall. She's curious about this Urn of Sacred Ashes. Is it truly possible to find the lost final resting place of Andraste? She shivers at the thought. To step foot on such holy ground.... Such a place is not meant for the likes of her.

Alistair clears his throat, glancing over at her. "Melina, right? That's what you said your name is?" he asks, cheeks turning a light pink.

She beams at him, happy he's remembered. "Yes! Melina Amell of Kinloch Hold," she replies.

He shifts a moment, not meeting her eyes. "There's probably something you should know. If we're going to travel together, it'll probably come up."

"You seem sad, what's wrong?"

He glances up at her. "I'm a templar," he says, words rushing out. "Or, I would have been. I never took my vows or drank lyrium but I was raised by the Chantry and taught to be a templar. Duncan rescued me though, before I could become a full one."

Melina frowns. "Rescued? Didn't you want to be a templar?"

He smiles, but it's the sad sort of smile. "I would have made a terrible templar," he replies. "Duncan saw I wasn't happy, and figured my training against mages could double for fighting darkspawn. Now, here I stand a proud Grey Warden." He takes a deep breath. "The grand cleric wouldn't have let me go if Duncan never forced the issue. I'll always be grateful to him."

Duncan? She wonders if that's the reason Alistair has been so sad. He sounds like he was a mentor to him, like Wynne is to her. "I'm sorry for your loss," she whispers, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He smiles at her, lips parting to reply when Daveth interrupts. "Alright, so I didn't find much information but I did find people!"

Melina looks up and is shocked by what she sees. A large man with bronze skin and strange purple eyes. He's huge, at least seven feet tall, with long white braids on his head. "Maker's breath," she whispers.

Daveth grins. "You've never seen a qunari before, have ya? Well, this is Sten. He murdered some people but now he's going to help us kill darkspawn." He grins. "And this is Sister Leliana. Wicked with a bow, she is," he continues, pointing to a small red headed woman in chantry robes.

Melina beams. "Maker's blessing, Sister," she says. she's unsure about this qunari fellow but having a member of the Chantry with them brings her comfort. The Maker is truly watching over them. He must be.


	12. Chapter 12

Jalyn stands in a corner. There's screaming everywhere. Chaos where there used to order. She's alone. The blood mages will find her. She needs to hide. Where can she hide? They know every spot in the tower. Nowhere is safe. Even the templars are falling. Magic taints the air. She can feel it on her skin, it's so heavy. Blood magic. She remembers blood magic.

_"At least I'm not fraternizing with a blood mage," Melina shoots back. The moment she finishes the sentence, her hands clasp over her mouth._   
  
_"What do you mean? Jowan isn't a blood mage," Jalyn whispers furiously. _

It creeps through the air, tainting everything. She watches from the shadows as mages and templars shift, bones popping out of place as they turn into abominations. Everything it touches grows and festers until it reaches a breaking point. Emotions hover in the back of her mind, so close. No. She doesn't want it. It hurts. She doesn't want it.

"Miss Surana!" 

Jalyn blinks, looking out across the room. It's the young templar. Cullen. Why is he calling for her? He rushes over to her and grabs her wrist. "Come on, they're looking for you. We need to find Gregoir."

She doesn't move. "Why?" she asks.

He stops, turning back to look at her. "Mellie's dead," he says, and she can hear the pain in his voice. "Uldred's taking over the tower. They're looking for tranquil sacrifices. But I won't let them hurt you."

Uldred. The name brings up memories she does not want to remember.

_Jalyn peers up at Senior Enchanter Uldred, a cross expression darkening her eyes. "You **bastard**. It was you, wasn't it? You taught Jowan blood magic," she accuses, venom dripping from every word. She clenches her fists, keeping her voice low so as not to be overheard. _

_Uldred peers down his nose at her. "Oh? And how can you be so certain of this, little elf?"_

_She resists the urge to smack him, knowing it will probably only land her in hot water with the templars and the Senior mage staff. "You son of a bitch. I **saw** you. You were teaching that other elf, Rev or whatever the fuck he's called. You told him it wasn't dangerous, you rotten snake."_

_His expression is cool as he flicks an imaginary speck of dirt from his robes. "This is unnecessary. Blood magic is not inherently dangerous. A weak mind is dangerous. The templars are dangerous. Blood magic is the key to our freedom, little elf, or do you enjoy being trapped in this Maker-forsaken tower?"_

_She hesitates. "Freedom?" she whispers. But the moment the thought enters, it leaves again and she shakes her head. "No, that isn't the way. It's dangerous. I should report you to that crotchety old fool," she mutters._

_Uldred laughs and the sound slides against her skin like oil. She shivers, unnerved. "Oh? Report me to Irving? Why, even if they believed you, what do you think they would do to your precious Jowan then? All my pupils would be in the same danger, or at least the ones I call out as my associates."_

_Her heartbeat stops, blood running cold in her veins. "You wouldn't..." But she can tell by his expression that he would. "You've done that all along, haven't you? Throwing the apostates you decide are lower than you to keep suspicion off yourself. You son of a bitch..." The realization hits her hard, almost staggering her. She wants to swing, to hit and pummel until Uldred is a bloody mess on the floor but she doesn't. "You betrayed your own!"_

_He scoffs, turning away. "I betrayed nothing. A few cogs must be sacrificed if we're to see true freedom, Surana."_

"Why?" There is no logical reason for him to save her. She is just a tranquil. Useful, but not necessary. And he is a templar. Why is he doing this?

He blinks at her, still tugging her wrist. "Because she loved you," he replies. 

Oh. Love. She remembers that emotion, the way it burned through her. Melina. Is she really dead? Grief hovers just out of reach. With so many demons and abominations roaming the halls, sometimes she can feel brushes of emotion. 

She follows close behind Cullen as they try to escape. Abominations and blood mages attack at every corner. She stands out of the way, unable to fight back. Useless. 

_Melina's curls are wrapped in a noble fashion atop her head. Her thumb is in her mouth as she stares, her big golden-brown eyes full of fear. A small bruise covers her left eye._   
  
_Jalyn glares down at the younger girl. “What're ya cryin’ for?” she asks. _

Jalyn can see people she once called 'friend' battling in the halls. She wants to help. She thinks of Melina. Melina would have helped. She would have spent all of her mana healing. But seeing so many dead templars.... It would have destroyed her. It's good then, that she's dead and can't see this. Better dead than to have your heart broken.  
  
 _Melina sniffles before curtsying. “I miss my momma,” she answers simply, voice soft and sweet._  
  
 _Jalyn laughs, causing the shem girl to wrinkle her brows and stare up at her, clearly confused. “Sorry. Just, no one's ever curtsied ta me before,” she says._

She doesn't want to die.

_The girl smiles and grabs her hand. “Will you be my friend, then?” she asks._   
  
_Jalyn raises an eyebrow, pulling her hand away. “W'at’s this? Why? ”_

She can hear people praying to the Maker to save them. She watches as Cullen slays another abomination. Would the Maker even save a tranquil?  
  
 _“Because I’m lonely and you are, too.”_

~*~*~

It doesn't take long before the blood mages overwhelm them. She can see Cullen, chained and gagged. His body is limp against the column he's tied to. She doesn't want him to die. Melina would have been sad, to see him like this.

Jalyn stands motionless next to Owain. A demon growls, breath a foul stench of rage and rot. Memories splinter across her mind in a shower of flashing lights and flickering faces, pain assaulting her as she doubles over. Tears streak down her face. She can feel hands, cold and clammy, running across her body in a distant memory. Unwanted, harsh, and the remembrance steals her breath.

As quick as she feels it, it's gone, vanished behind a thick haze of emptiness once more. She turns her head to look at Owain, her lips parted and face still wet with tears. An abomination glares back, flesh twisted beyond recognition. Jalyn feels nothing, her emotions already gone again. She does not wish to become the same, however. It feels uncomfortable, when the demons brush against her mind.

Owain the abomination growls, a low and guttural sound that bounces off the walls. Strange blobs of flesh and fat coat the stone columns, twisting around to form lumps of gelatinous layers that seem to quiver when the demons howl. Slime oozes down the dull, grey stone, cold and wet to the touch. Another demon hovers near, touching her mind. More memories assault her, coming back in fragmented shards of distorted images. Soft, golden eyes set behind snow white curls. Another flash, and she sees a boy with mousy brown hair whispering something soft and kind in her ear. It flashes again, and a templar's wicked glare as his hands roam her body causes her to cry out, gripping her head and screaming.

Then it's gone. She feels nothing, a calm and relaxed nothing as the demon moves away to fight a group of mages. It's not long before the mages shriek in pain, easily overwhelmed by the demon's call and their own desperation. Jalyn huddles back in the corner, hiding in the shadows. Remembering is uncomfortable.

She doesn't want to remember.

Whispers, so many whispers, running through her mind. Jalyn's body has become numb to the burning feel of demons brushing against her. She can hear her blood echoing in her ears, pounding so loud that not even the voice of the demon can be heard over it.

Gashes like open, angry mouths cover her arms and legs, dried blood stuck to the edges of each wound. They've stolen her blood to fuel their power.

A demon forms before her eyes and it looks just like Melina. She struggles against it. She doesn't want to become an abomination. Tranquility flickers on and off. She doesn't want to feel. 

The demon smiles, the malice in the expression not matching the face it's formed on. "You will break," it whispers, soft and sweet like a promise.

A bolt of lightning shoots its way through her body. She cries out, a sharp piercing sound against the silence. The ground hits her knees before she knows she's falling. A wordless cry keeps echoing in her ears, a desperate high-pitched screech, and she realizes too late she's the one making that Maker awful sound. She collapses, the stone floor cold against her face, body convulsing in pain.

"Jalyn," the demon's voice whispers, its breath tickling her ear.

No. She won't respond. Don't respond. That's what she was taught. Don't talk to demons. They can't tempt you if you ignore them. It's logical and safe to ignore them. 

Pain shoots its way through her skull, stealing her breath and her vision. "No! I won't, I won't, I won't!" she cries out, refusing to answer, refusing to give in. She will be strong. She _must_ be strong. She can't fight, but that doesn't mean she has to give in.

"Please, save me, Jalyn," the demon impersonating Melina begs.

She wants to. She wants to give in, to stop fighting. She's tired. The constant back and forth between feeling everything at once and feeling nothing at all is exhausting her will. She wants it to end. Will it stop if she gives in? Will it finally cease tormenting her if she gives it what it wants?

_"I love you, silly! Of course I do! You're my best friend," Melina says, cuddling up close and holding Jalyn's arm._

_Jalyn smiles. "I love you too, shem."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about Uldred turning in blood mages to throw suspicion off himself is canon, I found it in the World of Thedas lore books. I headcanoned that Jowan was one of them, and that Uldred had a hand in his whole downfall, based on the codex we find in these lore books.


	13. Chapter 13

Skeletons. Walking friggin’ corpses. Why are stupid elven temples always filled with friggin’ corpses? Maroth sighs as he swings his dagger. It scrapes against bone and he wonders yet again how in the void they’re supposed to kill something that’s already dead.

Thankfully, Lanaya’s magic seems to be more useful against the creatures and Maroth wipes the sweat from his brow. They need to find another entrance to the werewolf lair. The door they need is locked, because of course it is. Nothing ever goes the way he needs it to. He wonders, briefly, where all his luck went. Back in Denerim, they called him the Dark Wolf because he was known for stealing from the rich without ever being caught. He always seemed one step ahead of the guards, until that last job from Jenny and Sera. Stealing from the Arl’s family was the beginning of his downfall.

_"Well, what do we have here? A filthy knife-ear with his hand caught in the cookie jar? Typical." Vaughan Kendells' lip is curled up in a sneer, eyes narrowed with disdain._

_Maroth spits on his shoes, blood dripping from his lip. "Friggin' piss-eared shite," he retorts. "Yer lucky ya caught me at all."_

_Vaughan laughs, a cold sound that sends a chill down Maroth's spine. "I know who you are, knife-ear. You're the one they're calling the Dark Wolf, aren't you? Delicious. Oh, do I have a surprise for you." He jerks his head at one of his guards. "Take him down to the dungeons for now."_

A small boy stands before them, head darting around as if he’s looking for something. Maroth is able to see the wall behind him. A ghost? A friggin’ **_ghost_**? Maroth takes a deep, slow breath. Of course there’s ghosts. Nothing surprises him now.

"Mamae? Mamae na mara san..."

“Er…. I don’t speak Dalish,” he grumbles, glance at Lanaya.

She shrugs. “It is one of the many things my people have lost. Now, we only know a few words and phrases. Nothing whole. I think he’s calling for his mother? Mamae… I’m sorry, I do not know the rest.”

“Oiy, ghosty, yer ma’s not ‘ere,” he grumbles.

The boy startles. "Ma halani! Se vara lassa'val! Nae mal!" He runs off, vanishing through a door down the hall.

Maroth lets out a heavy sigh. “Never again,” he swears.

“Never again what?” Cammon asks.

Maroth glances at him a moment, his new whiskers twitching. “Never again will I ever enter some ancient elven temple,” he replies, following the ghost. “Right, let’s get this over with, yeah?”

They enter a chamber full of strange artifacts. Maroth takes a deep breath and regrets it immediately. The smell is rank and stifling. Cautiously, he looks at the carvings on a strange alter.

“Lanaya, whatsit?”

Lanaya’s brows are pinched together as she studies the carvings. “It’s a ritual, I think. Uthenera.” She smiles as her hand traces the carvings. “So much has been lost. Here, the ritual is simple.”

He listens carefully as she explains each step. He takes another deep breath and puts his daggers away. Hopefully this ritual isn’t going to kill him. But it might be the only way to find the damnable Weres.

He tastes the water, a single sip, and finds it to be cool and refreshing. Strange. He was expecting it to be stale and musty, like everything else in this place. Soft whispers echo in his mind, nothing he can understand, and a strange bolt shoots out toward the doors.

He watches the Dalish elves as they walk into the room, their faces each etched with an expression he can’t quite understand. They’re all elves here but this is a heritage he can’t relate to. It doesn’t reach him the same way. He just wants it to be over, but the Dalish are enthralled with the ruins and broken artifacts.

He shivers. It’s just like the temple with the mirror. Maker, please don’t let anyone die this time.

There’s another ghost, this one a woman. It’s hard to tell if she’s elven or human, but considering the location he guesses she must have been an elf. He can’t understand any of the words she spews as she waves her ghostly hands around in a vaguely threatening gesture. Go run sadal? He shakes his head and glances over at Lanaya.

“Viran se lan'aan? Ir annala for ros... Nae!”

“Ya makin’ sense of this, pet?” he asks.

“Ga rahn s'dael! Ga rahn! Ir emah'la shal! Ir emah'la shal!”

Layana shakes her head. “I do not understand enough. I think… she wants us to leave. We’re disturbing her resting place.”

Maroth shivers. “Right, let’s leave then, yeah? No werewolves here. Just ghosts.”

“I agree, we should leav-“

“Ir emah’la shal!” The ghost screams, raising her arms.

She vanishes in a puff of smoke and skeletons crawl out of the coffins surrounding them. “Bloody void,” Maroth grumbles.

Stabbing bones is useless so he uses the blunt end of his daggers to push the bones apart. If the bones are no longer connected, the fight seems to leave them. He does a spinning kick Adaia had taught him, the heel of his boot connecting solidly with the skull of a skeleton. He grins as the head flies off, landing with a loud smack against the far wall. The body of the skeleton falls to the ground, powerless.

“S’not so tough now, eh ya li’l bugger?” Maroth smiles at the piles of bones. “Right, now stay restin’ like yer supposed ta.”

“I-I don’t think we went the right way,” Cammon whispers.

Panowen snorts. “I think we all have realized that by now, da’len.”

Maroth looks at Athras. He looks somehow older than he did when they started this quest, face aged by sorrow. “Oiy, Athras. Whatsit? Yer lookin’ sour today,” he says.

Athras blinks at him, long and slow as if he’s trying to figure out what Maroth had just said. Finally, he lets out a deep sigh. “She looked like my wife,” he replies, voice wavering as he speaks.

“Ah, right,” Maroth says, shuffling back and forth a bit before meeting the older man’s gaze. “Lost me wife, too, yeah? Few months back. Shems killed her.”

“How do you keep going?” Athras asks.

“My daughter, innit? She’s my reason. Gots ta keep livin’ so I can see ‘er pretty smile again,” Maroth answers. “A papa duck can’t be without his duckling,” he adds, remembering one of the last things she had said to him.

Athras nods, slowly, as if he’s just waking up. “I have a daughter,” he says. “Her name is Llewelyn. She has the same orange hair as her mother. How do I tell my daughter ‘your mother is dead. A member of our clan killed her. I could not save her. She breathed her last breath as a werewolf’?”

Maroth shrugs. “No idea, yeah? Like rippin’ a bandage off, I guess. Just gots ta spit it out right quick. S’not meant ta be easy.”

They continue on in silence, each one lost in their own thoughts. It’s mindless work now- battle skeletons, search room, move on to the next area. Each room or chamber, little by little, until they reach one with a small alter. Something shiny catches the fire from Athras’ torch and Maroth bends down to pick it up.

A scattering of thoughts not his own race through his mind. Fear as something large and unknown chases him. Humans and elves dying around him. Death everywhere. He doesn’t want to die. He needs to hide. Where can he hide?

Maroth shakes his head, trying to clear the thoughts out.

> _Whatsit? Who are ya?_
> 
> _You…. Friend?_
> 
> _Oiy, I said who are ya?_
> 
> _…. Friend? Safe?_
> 
> _Yeah, yer safe. I can’t even see ya._
> 
> _Images of a great battle form in his mind again. He sees a man grabbing the gem. Soul gem? Must be what it’s called._
> 
> _Ah, so ya put yerself in this gem thingy. Yer running from what now?_
> 
> _The entity doesn’t remember, too many years have passed in silent torment. Nobody came to free him. He just wants to be free._
> 
> _Er… Whatsit?_
> 
> _Images of place the gem on the altar float in his mind. Free. Free. Blissful end to never ending silence. Free. Please. Please don’t leave me alone. I can’t take it anymore. Free. Free. Please._

Maroth grunts. “Lanaya, pet, whatsit? That alter over there, dangerous innit?”

Lanaya raises an eyebrow at him. “Uh, alters do not usually attack people?”

“Oh, right, ya can’t hear, yeah?” He shakes the soul gem in her direction. “Will it kill us?”

She takes the soul gem and he watches as her eyelids flutter madly. “So much… My people do not remember this war. We…. We did not fight the shemlen? Something attacked us both? How strange. So much history, lost to time. What else can you teach me?”

“It says it will teach me an ancient elven battle technique if we set it free,” she whispers, voice full of awe.

Maroth shrugs. “If it’s’not goin’ ta hurt us, go ahead. Take back some of what yer people lost,” he says.

“We’re your people, too,” she replies, closing her eyes and listening to the soul gem entity again.

His people? His people are back home, in Denerim. He watches Lanaya perform some type of ritual with the gem and the altar. Could this really be his people, too? He looks at his hands, covered in fur from the curse. There’s nothing ‘dalish’ about him. He’s just a dumb kid from the streets pretending at being an adult.

_He’s chained to the wall, left alone in the dark._

_It's hard to tell how much time is passing with no light and no food. Hunger tears at his belly as he hangs there, arms aching in pain. He can hear the high-pitched screams of a woman coming from above, echoing through the floor of Vaughan's room. The screams are full of terror and agony, descending into broken sobs as Vaughan laughs gleefully. As each day passes, the voice catches something in his memory, a sound he feels he should know but can't place. Hunger makes everything feel like a dream, his mind screaming with delirium._

_Finally, light spills into the room as the door opens. Maroth flinches away, the dim light hurting his eyes. A guard comes in with a bowl of what smells like piss-flavoured soup, and roughly feeds it to him. He fights it until the man gruffly grabs his head and forces the swill down his throat._

_"You'll need your strength for what's to come, boy, so stop fighting it." His voice is filled with something that almost sounds like regret._

_Maroth scowls at him, the screams from above more pronounced with the door open. That voice, though, that sound... He swears he's heard it before and a sick feeling falls over him._

_"W'ats goin' on up there?" he demands to know, fear twisting knots in his belly._

_The guard doesn't meet his eyes, just walks away to stand against the far wall. "Answer me, dammit!" Maroth shouts, voice hoarse from days of being unused._

_"You'll see soon enough, boy. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."_

He doesn’t want to remember. He shakes his head, pushing the memory further back. He needs to focus. He looks down at his arms, now covered in thick layers of fur. He frowns. He doesn’t much want to be a werewolf, either. His little Lala would be terrified, if she saw him now.

They quickly find the only room left, the one that will lead them to the heart of the werewolf lair. Maroth takes a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for whatever happens next. “Maker, watch over us,” he whispers.

~*~*~

Maroth stares at the naked woman in front of him, vibrant green vines slithering around her ankles and up her legs to brush against her ample breasts. Whatever he thought he was prepared to see, this was not it.

They call her the Lady of the Forest and she pleads with him to grant them mercy. The tale she whispers to him, voice soft like Andraste herself, lights a fire in his blood and he does not blame Zathrian for his revenge. If it had been his daughter... Anger makes him see red as he remembers Nessy.

_Blood stains the stone a dark red, pooling to mix with hair a pale, straw blonde._

_His heart pounds beneath his chest, tears falling from his eyes as he struggles to breath. Fear and anger mix with pain so thick and hot it makes him vomit on the floor. He can't comprehend what he's looking at for a moment, his mind refusing to accept that she could possibly be dead. No, she can't be. He'd left her making stew. She had smiled at him before she left, golden eyes full of joy. No, she can't be dead. She can't, she_ _can't._

_"No, Maker, no," he whispers, crawling toward Nesiara._

_Vaughan kicks him away, and his ribs crack under the pressure. "Now, now knife-ear, this is my whore now," he says, chuckling low at the end._

_Maroth's eyes widen as he realizes she's dressed in nothing but her underthings. Anger rips through his as he struggles to his feet. "Ya son ‘uva bitch," he says with a growl, reaching for the noble bastard's throat._

_Vaughan steps easily out of the way, laughter bubbling from his lips. "Don't touch me, filth. Now, you're free to go, I have what I want from you."_

_He slips in Nesiara's blood, landing hard on the ground. He reaches for her, looking into her eyes. His heart stops when he realizes she isn't looking back at him, and the golden orbs are glossy and unseeing. "She's dead," Maroth whispers, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes._

_"Yes, but not before she showed me a good time. You were a lucky man indeed to have such a pretty wife," Vaughan replies, motioning for his guard. "Go on, take this one out of my sight. Return him home, I'm sure that whiny little brat of his will want to see him."_

The howling of the wolves calls to him, and he longs to answer in kind. The curse spreads rapid fire beneath his skin, running hot through his veins. He turns to Lanaya, her hands trembling as she holds her staff, tears streaking down her face.

"You lie," Panowen says with a growl, but even her voice holds the barest hint of doubt. "Our Keeper would never... You lie."

It doesn't matter. Maroth knows the longevity of revenge, the deep seated pain of grief over losing the ones you hold most dear. Zathrian will not forgive, and bringing him here will only result in the werewolves attacking the Keeper. There’s no hope. No hope…

And with every passing second, the curse spreads through his body. If he delays this battle, will he turn into a were as well? When he loses his body, his elven form, will he lose his mind and will as well?

He looks at the beasts before him, the ones he’s slowly starting to resemble. It wasn’t them who raped and killed Zathrian’s kin. They’re filthy shems but… They don’t deserve to be cursed for a sin they didn’t commit.

Will Zathrian kill him on sight, for the way he looks now?

It's a chance he has to take. He looks into the eyes of the Lady. Somehow, despite her strange appearance, she seems infinitely sad. He struggles not howl, but to answer her with words.

“S’not cut out fer this sort of thing, but ya must be Witherfang. Zathrian wants me ta kill ya, take yer heart. But I won’t. Not yet.”

The Lady smiles, a soft hesitant smile. “Then you will go to him? Convince him to parlay?”

Saliva drips down his furry chin. “Herrr Yes,” he replies, the curse burning through his blood.

Panowen knocks an arrow, aiming for his heart. "He is a beast," she says, eyes narrowed. “He has betrayed us.”

Athras steps in front, turning his back to Maroth. "Has there not been enough death, Panowen? Slaying the one who led us here will not quench your thirst for revenge and it will not bring your husband back from the dead. We can find peace, if we listen. Danyla said the weres are not what we thought."

"Stand aside," she replies, eyes narrowed with hate.

"If you will not put down your bow, then you will fight me as well." Athras' tone is firm, unyielding, and he crosses his arms across his chest. "You have killed my bond mate. I will not allow you to kill this man as well, not with all our clan owes him."

“Do not make me kill you, lethallin,” she says, tears pooling in the corner of her eyes.

Athras closes his eyes. “If I die, perhaps Mythal will grant me the gift of seeing my Danyla again.”

Maroth growls, bones shifting under his skin. “Ya do not, herrrrr, need ta die fer me,” he says.

Panowen lets her arrow fly as her tears fall down her cheeks. “Ir abelas."

The arrow freezes before it pierces Athras’ chest. “That is enough, Panowen. As your future Keeper, I am commanding you to step away,” Lanaya says, magic holding the arrow in place.

A wave of her hand and the arrow falls to the ground, harmless. Maroth breathes a sigh of relief and tries to grin at Lanaya. She flinches but nods. “Come, let us find our Keeper,” she says. “He has much to explain.”

~*~*~

Zathrian waits for them outside the main chamber, though that hardly surprises Maroth at this point. Demons could fall from the sky and even that would seem normal, after everything he’s been through since the Denerim massacre.

“Is it true, Keeper?” Lanaya asks. Her voice is pleading, as if she wants it to not be true. Their path is easy and clear, if it’s all a lie.

Zathrian frowns. “It is true, but it does not matter. Come, let us meet this Witherfang and I will take the heart myself.”

Maroth places a paw on Zathrian’s chest. “Ya… will… talk,” he grunts. “Not attack.”

He can see Zathrian struggle with his emotions for a moment before he nods. “I did not mean for another elf to be turned like this,” he admits. “I will… talk with Witherfang, though I do not see what good it will do.”

The talk goes about as well as Maroth expects it, with lots of shouting from Zathrian, pleading from The Lady, and growls from the Weres. He can feel his body slowly continuing to shift. It won’t be long before he’s completely a Were. He does not want to be the Dark Wolf in a literal sense.

“My retribution is eternal, spirit, as is my pain. This is justice, no more.”

He moves to stand in front of Zathrian. “Is this justice?” he asks, showing his newly formed paws.

Zathrian frowns and looks away, unable to meet Maroth’s eyes. Maroth howls, long and low and mournful. “I ‘ave a daughter,” he says, voice soft. “I want ta see ‘er again, someday. How can I if I look like this?”

“The curse was not meant for you,” Zathrian replies.

Maroth shakes his head. “Doesn’t herrrr matter, yeah? Got me anyway. Look at the Weres. How many of ‘em do ya think are jus’ like me? Innocent victims caught in yer path of vengeance?”

Maroth flinches. Just like his family and all the elves back at the alienage. They all died for his revenge. “I know what it’s like. To lose yer family. To lose everythin’. But revenge… Ya don’t feel better, yeah? It just eats at yer heart until it rots it away ta nothin’. Revenge is useless,” he says.

“I have known pain and love, hope and fear, all the joy that is life. Yet of all things I desire nothing more than an end.” The Lady steps forward, hands out, begging. “I beseech you, Maker, end it now.”

Zathrian looks over at Lanaya, brow furrowed. “Da'len, if I do as these…. As they want, you will be left to lead the Clan.”

Lanaya nods, tears rolling down her cheeks. She rushes to Zathrian, embracing him. “You've been like my own father, Keeper. I promise to make you proud and lead our Clan well,” she says.

“Very good, da'len.” He pats her head, the harsh man suddenly soft as he stares into the distance “Alright, spirit. Let us put an end to this centuries old curse.”

As the magic fills the room and Zathrian falls to the ground, dead, Maroth can feel his own body change. He screams at the agonizing pain. Spots form behind his eyes. He can’t see. He can’t feel anything aside from the overwhelming pain. He falls to his knees, unable to breathe. Is he dying or being healed? He can’t tell.

“Lala… My little duckling…”

~*~*~

A soft hand touches his forehead and he looks into a pair of golden brown eyes, the image fuzzy around the edges. "Whatsit?" he mutters, drenched in sweat.

"I can heal him," a voice whispers, soft and sweet, just like his Nesiara.

A floating sensation lifts him up, swiftly running through his body as the pain leaves him. His eyelids flutter open, and surprise hits him hard as he looks into the face of a shem. "Whatsit?" he asks again, frowning past the lingering traces of pain.

The woman curtsies, of all bloody things, curls tumbling lose around her face. "My name is Melina Amell, of the Ferelden Circle of Magi. I come with the Grey Wardens to seek the help of the Dalish," she replies. "I’ve taken the last of your pain from the,” she hesitates a moment, glancing at a blonde shem, “werewolf curse."

Maroth leans up on his elbows, brows furrowed. "Circle of Magi, is it? An’ Grey Wardens? Heard ‘bout them. Da said they wanted ma fer one, once,” he mumbles, gingerly sitting up.

Maroth closes his eyes. “Yer fightin’ a blight?” He thinks of Laylah. If there’s a blight, his daughter is in danger. “Ya healed me, yeah? To pay ya back, I’ll help ya fight these Spawndarks. Sounds fair, innit?"

The dark haired warden chokes back a laugh. “I think ya mean darkspawn, but yeah. We could use the help,” he says, grinning.

Melina shakes her head, curls bouncing around her face. "You're not well enough to travel just yet," she says, chewing her lip.

The blonde warden takes a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right. I thought we were all full up on crazy,” he replies. "What's your name again?"

"Tabris. Maroth Tabris, innit right?"

And for the first time in a long time, he feels something akin to hope. He saved the dalish. He saved the Weres. Nobody died.

Finally, he did something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If the Warden chose to side with the Dalish during Nature of the Beast, either by curing the werewolves or killing them, Hawke encounters a man at the Wounded Coast being harassed by Dalish assassins, who accuse him of being a werewolf. Before Hawke begins the dialogue, the Dalish assassin says to the accused man, "Do you even know her name, shem? No? It's Danyla. She's dead." Danyla was part of the Lost to the Curse quest in Dragon Age: Origins." This same girl also refers to Danyla as her mother, and the wiki says Danyla has an "unnamed daughter". So I named her Llewelyn.


	14. Chapter 14

Melina watches Alistair closely. His body language has changed since they left the Dalish camp. Gaining their aide had been easy enough with the treaties. But ever since Daveth had announced they were going to Redcliffe...

"Alistair?" 

He turns to look at her, a ready smile on his face. "Yes, Miss?"

She smiles in return. "Please, just Melina." She hesitates a moment. "You seem worried about something. D-do you need someone to talk to?"

Her legs are sore from marching all day, but she offers Alistair a gentle smile. She hopes she's not being too presumptuous, assuming he would want to confide in a mage.

He pauses before nodding a bit. "Yes, it might help to tell you first," he says. He slows his pace a bit so that they're walking behind the rest of the group, just out of earshot. "I told you I was raised by the Chantry, right?"

A cool breeze blows through Melina's curls. She brushes the tangled mess out of her eyes. "Yes, I remember. That's how you became a Templar- almost."

"I, ah, should probably have told Daveth earlier but..." He sighs, running his fingers through his hair. "Well, before I went to the Chantry, I was raised by Arl Eamon."

Melina takes a piece of jerky from her pack and tosses it Ser Beasty. She listens a moment as he happily chews away at the tough bit of meat. "I don't really understand, but go on."

Alistair takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. "The reason he did that was because... well, because my father was King Maric. Which made Cailan my... half-brother, I suppose."

Melina blinks, long and slow. "So... You're a prince?" Her cheeks flush bright red. The likes of her should not be addressing a Prince so informally. "Maker, forgive me. I've been so rude. Prince Alistair, I-"

He cuts her off with a shake of his head. "I'm not a Prince," he replies, tone both sad and scared all at once. "Maker, I hope not." 

He pales beneath his tan, eyes growing wide. "You don't think.... You don't think they'll try to put _me_ on the throne, do you? Oh Maker, please no."

Melina smiles. "I think you would make a great King," she replies.

Alistair shakes his head back and forth, a sharp snapping motion. He takes another deep breath. "So there you have it. Now can we move on, and I'll just pretend you still think I'm some... nobody who was too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens."

"You're here with me. I think I'm the lucky one," Melina replies, offering him another smile.

His cheeks turn bright red at her comment. "I- I'm glad you think so, Melina," he replies.

She bites her lip a moment, hesitating. "My friends call me Mels," she says, voice barely above a whisper. She knows it's a sinful thing, to assume someone like her could be friends with a prince. Even if he doesn't want to be one.

"Mels," Alistair replies, smiling. "I like that. It's cute." He pauses, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes. "It suits you."

And this time, it's she who blushes.

~*~*~

When Daveth calls for them to stop to break for midday meal, she bends to pick a white lily, placing it among her curls. It smells sweet and she inhales a deep breath as she takes the hardened piece of bread from Alistair, a smile curving her lips.

She parts her lips, a 'thank you' ready on her tongue, when a woman comes from nowhere, eyes wild and frantic.

"Please, you must help us! The wagon's over turned and we've been attacked by bandits!" She turns, running away.

Daveth grins. "Well, we must help the pretty lass, right?"

Melina hesitates, biting her lip, before speaking. "I don't think she's telling the truth," she whispers. "I could feel coming from her. Bad magic."

Alistair frowns. "A trap, then? Wonderful. No use avoiding it, however. If it's meant to be a trap, they'll find us anyway."

Daveth nudges him, brow furrowed. "Think it might be Loghain's doin'?"

Alistair nods his agreement, running his hand through his strawberry blonde hair.

The new elf, Maroth, grabs his spear from his back, grinning in a way that sends a shiver down her spine. "Friggin' shem, well we'll show 'em, yeah?"

Jowan grabs his staff, glancing at nervously. "We should be careful," he warns. "I can sense they have at least one more mage with them."

Morrigan nods in agreement, shifting into a large spider once again. She speaks around protruding fangs and Melina blanches at the sight. "'Tis true, I can sense the magic as well," she says.

Sister Leliana frowns and places a gentle hand on Daveth's shoulder. "Perhaps we can avoid fighting, yes?"

Sten grunts, his large form hulking as he grips his sword. "There is no honor in fleeing a battle."

Daveth sends her a wink. "Don't worry, pretty one, this fight will be over in no time. We should capture the leader though, for questionin'."

Melina steals herself as she follows her companions into battle, refusing to look at Morrigan. The sight of her shape-shifting makes her stomach roll with nausea. She stands in the far back, as the others fight, casting paralyzing glyphs and healing spells when she can. An arrow pierces her shoulder and she cries out in pain before strengthening her personal barrier. She doesn't heal the wound yet, however, saving those spells for the others. She watches the battle carefully, aiming each spell with precision so that only the enemy is caught in the glyphs. She also keeps a close eye on Beasty, wincing if a dagger or sword gets too close. Dogs shouldn't fight in battle, she muses. They should be at home, lying comfortably in front of a warm fire and chewing on old bones.

Beasty stays near her though, tearing any enemy who gets too close to shreds with his teeth and claws. She sends a silent prayer to the Maker for the hound and his protection. Surely, by now, she'd be dead if not for Beasty.

The assassins who had come for them were clearly not expecting there to be as many opponents for them to fight, and it isn't long before they all fall or flee. She winces as she lets down her barrier, limping over toward the Wardens. Alistair is frowning, staring down at an elf with pale blonde hair and a dark tattoo on his cheek. His cheekbones are high and sculpted, and covered in splatters of blood. Twin daggers lay at his feet, eyelids closed though he isn't dead.

When Daveth wakes him, he expresses clear surprise at still being alive. He answers each question Daveth fires at him with a strange accent Melina recognizes as Antivan from one of the mages at Kinloch Hold. Over the years, her friend's accent has quieted, but when she first came to the tower she said she hailed from Antiva City, much the same as this elf.

She's never heard of the Crows, however, and crinkles her brow when he speaks the name. "Crow? You do not appear to be a bird," she says, voice soft.

Her cheeks burn bright red as Daveth lets out a loud laugh, tears streaming from his eyes. "He doesn't mean that kind of crow, darlin'. It's a famous, or rather infamous, guild of assassins."

Cheeks still red from embarrassment, she hangs her head. "Oh," is all she can reply.

Jowan bumps her shoulder with his, offering her a hesitant smile. "I didn't know what they were, either," he whispers to her. She scowls at him, stepping away from his attempt at solidarity. 

Morrigan scuttles closer, still in spider form, and clicks her pincers toward the assassin. "What is your name, elf?" she asks, words slurred slightly due to the strange mouth they're formed in.

The elf's eyebrows fly up, eyes widening as he stares at the spider. "You Fereldans are a strange lot, indeed. This is your form of torture, no? Though I must say, I prefer other forms of torture, like the kind using rope and a beautiful woman or man. Spiders, I do not care for," he replies, shivering slighting and wincing from the pain in his wounds. "But I digress. Zevran Arainai, at your service."

Melina steps forward, curtsying before speaking. "I can heal your wounds, if you like, Ser Arainai."

Zevran raises an eyebrow at her. "Hmmm? What's this? Heal my wounds? Ser? You Fereldans are truly a strange lot," he mutters.

Alistair places a hand on her wrist, shaking his head. "He's an _assassin_ , Mels, and one sent to kill us. We're _not_ healing his wounds," he whispers in her ear.

"B-but you can't kill him now! That would be murder, the battle is over," she replies, spinning around to look Alistair in the eyes. Her heart is pounding fast beneath her rib cage. "Please, can't we just let him go? If he promises not to try again? I- I don't want to kill anyway, if they're not a darkspawn."

Zevran chuckles, leaning back on his elbows. "Ah, to be defended so by such a pretty woman, the Maker's blessed me, no? I have an even better proposition for you, if you Wardens care to listen."

Maroth leans carefully on his spear, his full lips twisted into a smirk. "A proposition, right? Well, that sounds like it cou'd either be a fun time or a deadly one," he quips.

The assassin lets out another chuckle, this time winking over at Maroth. "That is not quite what I had in mind, though I could warm your bed if you like."

Maroth grins. "Right, an' stab me after, yeah?"

Daveth rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Right, well get on with it then. What do you want? Aside from sex."

"It is more what you want, Grey Warden, though I would like to stay alive if I may. I am quite skilled at many things. Battle, poisons, picking locks, sex... The choice is yours of course," he replies, and Melina feels her entire body go red at his words. "In exchange for my life, I will be indebted to you, to do with as you please."

Alistair crosses his arms, shaking his head. "And what is to stop you from killing us all in our sleep?"

Zevran raises an eyebrow, a smiling playing with the edges of his lips. "Why, your skill of course. As well as my oath."

Sister Leliana tap a finger to her lips, one eyebrow raised. "The Maker would approve if we granted this sinner mercy where others would not."

Melina breathes a sigh of relief, grateful toward the Sister.

"'Tis would be useful to have an assassin with us, though I would examine your food and drink more closely, were I you," Morrigan adds, shifting back into her human form.

"That is good advice for anyone, no?"

Daveth chews his lip, and Melina can tell he's mulling over the idea. "Alright, I suppose. Probably not my wisest choice, yeah? But why not. Can't be worse than a murderous qunari. At the very least, you can carry the packs, assassin. Melina, go ahead an' heal him."

She curtsies toward the Grey Warden, beaming. "Thank you," she replies, before casting a healing spell over Zevran, knitting together the skin and bones that need it. "You should feel much better now, Ser Zevran. Please be careful, though. It may take some time before you're back to normal."

Zevran gets to his feet, bowing his head toward them all. "I hereby pledge my oath of loyalty to you until such a time as you choose to release me from it. I am your man, without reservation, this I swear." He sends a wink toward Melina, and she looks away quickly.

She sends another prayer to the Maker, hoping they get to Redcliffe quickly and without further incident. 

~*~*~

Melina sits in the grass outside the Chantry of Redcliffe village. A small boy sits in her lap, his arm broken. She sings a song about Andraste as she performs a healing spell. "There now, Bevin, your arm is healed. Does it feel better?" Melina asks, tucking a strand of her wild hair behind her ear.

The boy, Bevin, grins widely. "Thank you so much! You're so nice," he replies. "You're like Andraste herself, healing the sick and wounded. Thank you!" He kisses her cheek as he gets up, running toward his sister.

A blush colours her cheeks as a young woman giggles. "Bevin, I think you've embarrassed her," she whispers, nudging the boy with her foot.

"Sorry," he replies. "Thank you again, miss," he says to Melina. He scratches Beasty behind the ears, and the dog almost seems to smile in response, thumping his leg on the ground in apparent pleasure.

Kaitlyn just shakes her head, her dark blond hair falling in her eyes. "How can we repay you, miss?"

Melina gets to her feet, curtsying low. "Just stay safe, the both of you."

"We don't have much, but my father had a sword," Kaitlyn says, biting her lip.

Melina shakes her head, a soft smile on her face. "Please, you needn't give me anything. It brings a healer joy to heal, and helping you is reward enough."

"You truly are like Andraste," the girl whispers, amazement colouring her voice. "Thank you."

Melina hesitates. "You're trying to make it to Denerim, right? Here, it isn't much but take this." She hands the younger girl a small bag of coin that Alistair had insisted she take. "Mages aren't supposed to have coin and you need it more than I."

"Melina? We need you over here, please," Alistair calls out, motioning her over.

She turns and rushes over toward him before Kaitlyn can refuse. "I'm sorry, Alistair. The little boy was in pain, and I- I should have asked you before I went to him," she says.

Alistair ruffles her hair. "You're fine, I'm glad you helped him. Right, so we're helping the village, and then in the morning we'll make an assault on the castle. We'll need your help to keep the villagers alive with your healing spells, okay?"

Melina nods, beaming up at him. "I will do my best. These poor villagers, we have to save them, right? It must be so horrifying to face demons and the walking dead with no templars."

Maroth grunts, lip curling. "That's yer opinion, poppet. These shems wouldn't think twice if it were an alienage bein' attacked. Bugger it all, I'll be in the tavern until night fall. I need a strong pint of ale if I'm goin' to be helping a village full of shems."

Daveth lets out a sigh, clapping the man on the shoulder. "I'll come along, too. Maybe we can have a drink together before fighting a horde of rottin' corpses," he says with a shiver.

Maroth chuckles. "Yeah, alright. Just don't hold me back if there's a pretty face there willin' ta help me relieve some of this tension."

Zevran pouts, but his eyes gleam mischief. " Ah, but I thought that was what I was here for, no?"

Daveth lets out a low groan. "Please tell me you two aren't going to spend the entire time flirting. I'll need more alcohol if you do," he warns.

Melina hesitates a moment. "May I join you? I haven't visited a tavern before."

"Perhaps we should invite the dark haired sorceress, no? Morrigan seems to be your type," Zevran quips, chuckling.

"Shut it, you," Daveth mutters. "I don't need lip from an assassin."

The door of the tavern swings wide, and the smell of wine and ale hits her hard. A group of men sit in the corner, faces ragged and scruffy in the dim light. A portly man stands at the bar, wiping down the dirt with a mean scowl on his face. 

"Hello, what can I get for ya?" A girl with long, deep red hair greets them, a smile wide on her face.

Maroth looks the tavern girl up and down, a smirk twisting his lips. "Well, pretty thing, I can think of somethin' ya can do fer me," he says, winking.

She lets out a soft laugh. "Oh, you're a charmer, you are. If you want ale, we've got plenty. If you're looking for anything else, you've come to the wrong place, I'm afraid."

"Not even a kiss fer the heroes who'll be savin' yer village?" Maroth quips. 

"Do you often ask for a kiss from a girl before you even ask her name?" the girl retorts, eyes twinkling in amusement.

Maroth chuckles, tucking a strand of the girl's hair behind her ear. "Tell me yer name, beautiful, an' I'll tell ya mine," he murmurs. 

Her cheeks heat up bright red, matching her hair. "Oh my," she whispers. "Beautiful, is it? Very well, my name's Bella."

"Bella," he whispers. "W'at a lovely name, fer such a lovely girl. My name's Maroth, yeah?"

She leans forward, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek, almost touching his lips. "There, how's that? Maybe if we all come out alive after all this mess, there'll be more waiting for you."

Daveth clears his throat while Zevran laughs, clutching his sides. "Right, that's awkward. Can we get drunk now? I have a new image I need to erase," Daveth mumbles.

Maroth slings an arm around him, grinning. "Yer just jealous I got ta her first, shem," he replies.

"Arsehole," Daveth grumbles. "Why'd I bring you along, again?"

Bella chuckles, eyeing them both. "Well, you're both pretty cute," she admits, winking and walking away.

Daveth pushes at Maroth, laughing and shaking his head. "I hate you," he says.

Maroth opens his mouth to reply, laughter gleaming in his eyes, when he freezes. "Berwick? W'at in the void are ya doin' here, ya lout?" He walks over to a brown haired elf sitting by himself, a grin on his face. "Don't tell me yer on a mission 'ere?"

Berwick frowns, waving his hands. "Shut up, you dolt. You want to send the whole village on me? Shit." He sighs, looking around. "Bloody void, I never thought I'd see _you_ here, of all people. There's nothing worth stealing here."

"Who's this then?" Daveth asks, scratching the side of his nose. "Friend of yours?"

Zevran chuckles softly, shaking his head. "I recognize your armor, as well. You're a spy."

"Oh this is just wonderful, really," Berwick replies, burying his face in his palm. "The Maker cursed me, I know it."

Maroth takes a seat across from him. "Eh, don't worry, Berwick. Tell me, w'at yer doin' here? Who sent ya?"

"I don't have to tell you anything, Maroth," he grumbles, looking away. "I left Denerim a long time ago. I worked hard to erase that part of my life, to make a name for myself. I don't need you coming up and bringing it all back."

Maroth shrugs, leaning forward casually. "Ya don't ' _ave_ ta tell me, but my friends 'ere won't like it too much if ya don't."

"It's not like this shit is my fault," Berwick replies. "I was just sent to watch, that's all. And I was sent by Loghain, so I didn't do anything wrong!"

Maroth exchanges a glance with Daveth as Zevran chuckles. "Loghain, ah now there is a familiar name," the assassin says. "I wonder, did he pay you as much as he paid the Crows?"

Berwick scoffs. "I doubt that. Are we done here?"

Daveth frowns, placing a hand on the elven spy's shoulder. "Perhaps you'd be interested in another job? The coin's shit, but it'll still be worth your while."

"How's that?"

A slow grin spreads across Daveth's face. "You'll get to keep your life."

"Wonderful," Berwick replies, rolling his eyes. He frowns, regarding Maroth closely. "So, what's the Dark Wolf doing in a village like this? You lookin' to rob the Arl?"

Melina watches as Daveth's jaw drops. "The Dark Wolf? _The_ Dark Wolf? You can't be serious. I've heard of you, I have, when I was a pickpocket in Denerim. Andraste's pantaloons, I can't believe yer him." He pauses, smacking Maroth upside the head. "I can't believe ya didn't tell us, either."

Maroth grins, rubbing the back of his head. "Right, well between the assassins and werewolves, it 'asn't come up, shem," he replies dryly.

Melina feels useless, standing there, unable to contribute anything of value. "Your accent is different from Ser Maroth and Ser Daveth's." 

Everyone turns to stare at her, as if they'd forgotten she was there. Her face heats up in embarrassment. She shouldn't have said anything. She shouldn't even be here. She doesn't belong.

He shrugs, shifting in his chair. "No one wants to hire a spy that sounds like a gutternsipe," he replies with grunt. 

"I- I'm sorry. I should go," she replies.

Zevran snorts, a soft sound that punctuates the sudden silence. "Ami, you apologize too much."

Maroth pokes him the ribs, frowning. "Yer not helpin'," he grumbles. "Right then, lass, we're goin' ta stay an' get drunk. Go back to the others an' give this message to Alistair, yeah?"

Berwick grabs a note from his pocket, handing it to her. "Give him this too," he adds. "Might as well have evidence to back it up, if I'm selling out my employer."

Melina nods dutifully, clutching the paper. "Of course," she replies.

As she leaves the tavern she can hear the others still joking and laughing. Her heart twists at the sound. She really doesn't belong anywhere. She hurries to Alistair's side, holding the tears back as she hands him the paper. He frowns as he looks at her. 

"What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, forcing a smile. "Nothing! Ah, the sun looks so bright today," she replies, looking up at the clouds. Beasty chases a butterfly nearby, bounding through the dying grass with glee.

Alistair grabs her chin, making her look at him. "Mels, what's wrong?"

"I- no, it's really nothing. I'm fine, truly."

He sighs before pulling her into a hug. She squeaks as he embraces her, smelling of sweat and dirt. "You're not, but it's alright. You don't have to tell me right now."

She's never been hugged before, not like this. Motherly hugs from Wynne. Even Jalyn only returned a hug when given, never initiated, and Cullen... They had shared the barest hint of a kiss once, but never a warm hug like this. She lets the tears fall down her cheeks as she clings to Alistair. She hadn't realized how lonely she's been. She misses Kinloch Hold. She misses Niall and Wynne and Jalyn and Cullen and all her other friends. She doesn't like this feeling of loneliness. 

"Thank you, Alistair," she whispers.

~*~*~

The battle is over. Melina rests her back against the windmill in the shadow of the large Qunari, a cool and welcoming breeze blowing the frizzy tendrils of her hair. She slides down, sitting on her butt in the grass, and Beasty leans against her. She reaches her hand to pet the dog behind his ears, enjoying the warm, musky sent of hound. She lets her eyelids flutter closed, exhaustion clawing at her mind. The battle is over. 

And they won. The villagers all still live. No one had to face the horror of being dragged off by the undead remains of people they once knew. The demon's rage at their win is fierce, though, and tugs at her mind even now. The demon howls, mindless anger at being denied more villagers to use as playthings for its mad whims.

But Melina allows herself to rest, knowing it isn't over, not by a long shot. She had spent the battle healing, over and over, keeping so many from death or being overcome with terror and fleeing. She's bone-tired, more weary than she had been even during her Harrowing. She had glanced in a mirror before travelling to the top of this hill, and circles ring around her eyes, dark against the icy paleness of her skin and hair. 

She listens as Bann Teagan and the others discuss their next step, trying not to fall asleep.

Bann Teagan turns to her, handsome face forming a frown. "Maker's breath!" His eyes widen as he points toward a woman in a fancy gown rushing toward them, her deep blonde hair pulled back haphazardly into a bun. Her red and golden gown is stained with blood and mud, torn and frayed at the edges.

The woman's face is pinched, brows furrowed tightly. "Teagan! Thank the Maker you yet live," she whispers, clutching at his armour. "Please, you must come with me, back to the castle."

Daveth frowns, cocking an eyebrow at her. "Just who in the void are you?" he asks, scratching his nose.

The woman turns to him, lip curled in distaste. "Who am _I?_ I am Lady Isolde, Arlessa of Redcliffe. Who are _you_?" she asks, voice dripping disdain.

"I'm a Grey Warden, and one of them who helped saved your village, so be careful with that smug tone of yours," he mutters.

Alistair steps forward, sighing heavily. "Hello, Lady Isolde," he says, bowing slightly.

Her eyes flash in recognition. "Alistair? Why are you here?"

"I've come with the Grey Wardens, Mi'lady, to ask for Arl Eamon's help. I see that he's in no state to help anyone right now, so we're offering to do what we can."

She nods, letting out a sigh of her own. She turns back to Teagan, swallowing, tears brimming in her eyes. "Please, Teagan, you must come back with me. There's something holding my son hostage, please. You must help me save Conner," she says, voice breaking.

Teagan nods, prying her fingers loose. "Of course, Isolde-" he begins, only to be cut off by a grunt from Jowan.

"It would be foolish to go with this woman alone. There is a demon in that castle, as well as more than one mage," he interrupts.

Melina nods as Beasty leans against her leg, offering her comfort. "Jowan is right, Bann Teagan. Your life would be at risk if you went alone. And you would not be able to fight any demon you find; you are neither a mage nor templar trained."

Isolde's eyes flash with anger. "No! It made me promise that only Teagan and I would return. If I bring others then who knows what it might do to Conner! I will not risk my son," she snaps, Orlesian accent remarkably similar to the Lay Sister's.

Daveth shakes his head, running his fingers across the bit of stubble that's been growing on his chin. "Well, it's a good thing it ain't up to you, lady. Right, you mentioned a tunnel, yeah? Take Melina and Jowan with you and a small team of us will go through the tunnels. If the demon thinks you've already taken the ones who helped the village with you, then it'll never expect more of us coming up through the tunnels. I hope."

Alistair smirks, crossing his arms. "You hope? That's reassuring."

"No, you can't!" Isolde's voice is high pitched and full of fear. 

Melina places a hand on Isolde's shoulder as the woman cries, tears spilling down her well-sculpted cheeks. "Mi'lady, you must allow us to come with you. There will be no hope for saving your family otherwise. Trust in the Warden's plan, they have not steered us wrong thus far."

Daveth snorts, exchanging a glance with his fellow warden. "Right then, that's encouraging. I say you, me, and the rest of us can take the tunnels."

Beasty barks, bounding in circles. Melina scratches his ears, shaking her head. "You'll come with me, Ser Beasty," she assures the hound.

Isolde buries her face in her hands. "We are all doomed," she whispers.

"It'll be alright, Isolde. I wouldn't be alive if not for them. We can trust them," Teagan assures her, pulling her a bit away from the others to console her crying.

~*~*~

Beasty walks in front, hackles raised and head lowered. Melina juts her chin out, holding her breath as she takes her first step into the castle. The dark magic dances along her skin, slithering and slick like hot oil dripping from a lamp. She pulls her cloak tight around her shoulders, glancing over at Jowan. 

"Can you feel that? The demon knows we're here," she whispers.

He nods, a short jerk of his head. "Yes, I feel it. I don't like it," he replies.

She reaches out her hand, hesitant, and places it soft along his arm. He turns to her, meeting her gaze with a look of shock. "We'll be okay, we just have to resist it," she whispers.

He wets his lips a moment but nods. "Yes, of course. I won't let you down."

"Conner," Isolde cries out, pushing past her and running into the main hall. "Oh, my sweet boy," she says, falling to her knees, tears pouring down her cheeks in thick, dark rivulets, smearing her makeup.

"Fool woman, you were to only bring Uncle!" the boy yells, his voice deeper than it should be. The high pitched sound of a child's tone is overshadowed by a menacing growl that echos around the room. His eyes glow dark purple, like magic fire that burns cold.

Melina falters, staring at a boy who can't be older than eight or nine, his blonde hair the same colour as his mothers. His cheeks are lined with dirt and blood, lips twisted in a cruel smile.

"Maker's breath," Melina whispers, crossing her heart. "It's possessed a _child_."

Teagan thunders past them. "What in the void is this? Isolde, I demand to know what's going on!"

Jowan's lips are parted as he watches the little boy throw his head back, mad laughter bubbling forth. He shakes his head, brows furrowed. "Your nephew is gone, Bann Teagan. That is an abomination."

Isolde shakes her head so hard Melina's afraid her neck might snap. "No! Don't say that! Co-Conner is still in there," she shouts, clutching at her son's tunic, eyes wild. "Please, my son, come back," she begs.

Tears prick at the corners of Melina's eyes as Isolde's desperation and pain hits her. "Oh, Lady Isolde, I'm so sorry, but Jowan is right. Your son is no more," she whispers, too soft for the woman to hear. She looks up at Jowan, and can see the look of horror on his face. "Jowan, I-" she begins, but doesn't know what to say.

He places a hand on her shoulder, gripping tight. "Don't let your emotions control you, Melina. We have to stay strong," he says, and she can see a muscle in his jaw clenching.

"But he was just a little boy..." she whispers as Isolde's cries, clinging to the demon.

Jowan meets her eyes, frowning. "Don't think about it. The boy is dead, or as good as. Focus on the demon, and the fact that it needs to die to avenge the boy."

"Die? No, I won't let you kill my son, you can't," Isolde screams. 

Melina whips around, watching as Isolde gets to her feet, standing in front of her son. "He's my baby, I can't let you hurt him. Have you ever had a child? For nine years I have held him, and loved him, and I won't let you take him from me!"

Melina walks over to her, trying not to cry herself. "I'm so sorry, Lady Isolde, but that's no longer for you to decide," Melina says, tone gentle. "Your son is already gone."

Teagan, narrows his eyes, clenching his fists at his sides. "You can't be serious, he's just a child!" 

The demon laughs again, and its magic slides against Melina's skin like cobwebs in the dark. "You think you can kill me? Oh, what fun! Shall we play a game then? You can fight my servants, first," it says, ending its sentence with a giggle.

Elves surround them, eyes gleaming with a mixture of madness and sorrow. Bile rises in Melina's throat as she looks at their ears; they've all be sliced off, leaving behind gaping wounds covered in dried blood. They let out a screech that pierces the air and Melina calls up her mana as one rushes her.

She tries not to hurt them, but their attacks are relentless. Their hands claw at her faces, mouths foaming rabidly as they scream. Spittle flies, hitting her in the face. She shoves back, pushing the maddened elf to the ground and using a paralyzing spell to freeze it in place. 

She hears the clanking sound of metal on metal and spins around. She spots Alistair and Daveth and breaths a sigh of relief as the last of the mad elves fall.

"Where's Conner?" Alistair asks, frowning as he looks around.

Teagan hangs his head, defeat emitting from his body. "He's- He's hiding," he whispers.

Isolde falls to her knees, clutching Alistair's arm in her small, pale hands. "Please, Alistair! You can't let them hurt my baby! You owe Eamon more than that, please protect him," she begs, eyes frantic.

His pupils widen as he stares at her. "Maker's Breath, Lady Isolde, I-" He looks to Melina, face crinkled in confusion.

"Conner's a mage, my friend," Melina says. "And the demon Teagan speaks of resides in his body."

"Conner's a demon? I don't believe it, I can't. How did this happen?"

Niall steps forward from behind Maroth. Melina gasps, shock flooding through her. He's not dead. Oh sweet Maker, he's not dead. She rushes him, grabbing him in a tight hug.

"Niall! I thought you were dead. Oh Thank the Maker, you're alive. You're alive," she whispers, sobbing.

Maybe others survived too and it's the first time in a long time that she's felt hopeful.

Niall returns the hug, burying his face in her hair. "Mels, I- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Loghain found me after Ostagar. I was so scared. He said he was going to have the templars make me tranquil if I didn't help him. I'm sorry!"

She pulls back, confused. "Niall?"

"You!" Isolde screeches. "I hired you to help my son and you poisoned my husband! Why are you here?"

Melina's whole body goes cold. No, not Niall. Niall is kind and gentle and brave. Niall passed his Harrowing so quickly and easily, even the templars were surprised. Niall... Niall would never.

"Niall?" she asks, grabbing his hand. "You didn't, right? You didn't try to kill someone? Please, tell me you didn't do this."

He bows his head in shame. "Mother always said I was destined for great things. I guess she was wrong," he whispers.

Shock, like a punch to the stomach, hits her hard. "Why?"

"Loghain promised me it would help Ferelden. He said it was the only way, and if I didn't, there would be consequences."

Hatred for this Loghain rises inside her like bile. First Ostagar, then the assassins, and now.... "Niall, I-" 

"Mels?" 

She turns and looks at Alistair, her eyes still filled with unshed tears. It's like her whole world is drifting apart. 

Morrigan scoffs, the sound sharp in the stillness. "We, or rather Jowan, has a plan to save this child since this fool seems so intent that it must be so," she says, waving her hand in Alistair's direction. 

"So I'm a fool to want to save a child, is it? Well, if I'm a fool, so be it. Better a fool than a cold-hearted bitch," he retorts, eyes narrowed.

"That's enough, both of you," Daveth cuts in. Dark circles line his eyes, and she can tell he's mentally and physically exhausted. 

Leliana bites her lip, fingering her bow with a furrowed brow. "I'm not sure we should trust in such dark magic, Daveth. The Maker forbids it."

Morrigan rolls her eyes, thin arms crossed over her chest. "And you know this for certain, do you? Your Maker has spoken to you directly, has he, and told you that this specific ritual is a forbidden one?" She clicks her tongue, lips twisting into a smirk. "How convenient."

"Shut up, witch," Alistair says with a growl. "We can't really be considering this, can we?"

"Ritual? From Jowan?" Melina asks. She turns to him, eyes narrowed. "What sort of ritual would that be?"

Jowan doesn't meet her eyes as he explains. "It... would require a sacrifice. To send someone into the Fade, to fight the demon in its natural ho-"

"Blood magic," Melina says, voice low. "No good can come of a sacrifice."

Alistair shakes his head, running his fingers through his blood stained hair. "I have to agree with Mels- blood magic is forbidden."

"Better to slay the child then? Is this Alistair who speaks or the templar?" Morrigan asks.

"I'd say it's common sense," he quips back. "We don't even know if this ritual of his will work."

The harsh sound of skin slapping against skin breaks the argument as Isolde's hand lashes out, leaving a bright red mark across Alistair's cheek.

"We have to try! You can use my blood; if it will save my son then I would gladly give even my life for him. Must I beg? Please, Alistair, save my Conner."

Teagan, puts a hand on her shoulder. "Isolde, we can't ask them-"

"I won't give up on my baby, Teagan, I can't. You can't ask me to, not when I might save him still."

Alistair's hand touches the mark on his face where Isolde slapped him, eyes wide. "Well, I haven't felt that sting in a long time," he remarks, tone soft. "Thanks for such a bitter reminder, Lady Isolde."

He sighs, turning toward Daveth. "What do you think, my friend?"

Melina bites her lip, hesitant to interrupt when she isn't needed. "We can go to the circle. Blood is only used because a mage doesn't have the power on his own. If we have enough mages, and enough lyrium, we can power the same ritual that way. Kinloch Hold isn't far. And we do need the mages for your treaties."

"How many villagers will die while we travel?" Jowan whispers the question, brows furrowed.

Melina frowns. "I-"

Daveth sighs. "Hopefully, none. Jowan, Zevran, Leliana, Sten, and the dog will wait here. Protect the villagers. Morrigan, Alistair, Maroth, and I will take Melina and go to the circle. Maker helps us." 


	15. Chapter 15

Jalyn watches as they drag Cullen away in chains. Small ripples of fear flutter through her. He meets her eyes, blood pouring from a wound on his head. His eyes are full of fear. His lips form words she cannot hear. The demons are screaming in her head. Over and over they shout, telling her to let them in. Demanding. Pleading. So much noise.

Days drag on as they continue to drain blood from her body. She's not sure how long it's been. Her inability to tell time reminds her of when she was thrown in solitary. How long had that been? Weeks? Months? She's still not sure. Time blurs together, when you can't see the sun.

The door bursts open and Wynne and Petra stand in the doorway. Wynne's eyes are ablaze with anger and determination. "By the Maker, I will not allow this," she says, casting a spell that freezes the blood mages in place.

Another spell and they fall to the ground, unconscious but not dead. Petra grabs her wrist, her hands cold. "Come on, you. We've been looking for you."

"Why?" she asks.

Wynne casts a healing spell over Jalyn's wounds. "I remember when you first came here, full of fire. You may not have been my pupil, but you were still a child once, clinging to my skirts. We won't leave you behind," she says.

Her face seems lined with age more so than Jalyn remembers. It must be all the fighting. Healers prefer to heal life, not take it. Jalyn remembers Melina saying something like that. The very idea of taking a human life seemed to make her former friend feel physically sick.

Jalyn nods. "That is good. The demons touch my mind and it is uncomfortable." 

Wynne squints at her a moment. "The demons? What would a demon want with a tranquil, I wonder?" she muses, long gray hair in knotted strands around her face.

"I do not know but when they touch my mind, I remember what it is like to feel."

Petra grows pale and Wynne's eyes widen in shock. "That... That is interesting. It's also quite disturbing. We can ask Irving about it, when we find him." Wynne adjust her robes a moment before sighing. "Let's go."

Petra grabs her hand, a wary look in her eye. "Come on, Jally. Stay close to me, okay?"

Jalyn's heart twists at the sound of her old nickname. Only Petra and Anders had ever called her Jally. She frowns as a tear trickles down her cheek. "You have not called me that since before I was made Tranquil," she whispers.

"Sorry," Petra replies. "I just.... I just couldn't bare to see you like this."

Petra's hand is warm in hers as they run through the halls.

_"Yer just a dumb shem, like all the rest!" Jalyn says, glaring at the girl across the table._

_She's been at the tower for a month and already she hates here. It's worse than the alienage. At least there she could go outside, play with the other kids. She can't help but wonder what they're up to now. Probably having more fun than her. She can still remember their names, clear as day. Shianni, Soris, Elva, Nola, Nessa, and that prat Maroth._

_Probably having more fun than her._

_"Better that than a knife ear," Petra quips back._

_Jalyn narrows her eyes at the girl. "You take that back! There's nothin' wrong with my ears!"_

_"They're so big, though, must make it easier to hear, at least," Petra replies, giggling._

_Kinnon shifts in his seat. "Maybe you should stop, Petra," he says, glancing at Jalyn. "We're all mages, after all. It doesn't matter where we come from."_

_Keili nods, taking a small bite of food. "We all have the curse of magic, so we should be friends."_

_Jalyn curls her lip. "I'll never be friends with a shem," she says, remembering her mother. "Never."_

_Petra raises an eyebrow. "Really? Not even the new Amell girl? She's always following you around like a little duckling."_

_"We're not friends! I hate her!" Jalyn shouts._

_A tray drops behind them, clattering against the stone floor. Jalyn turns to see Melina standing there, tears falling down her chubby face._

_"_ _You hate me?" she whispers._

_She starts crying harder; big heaving sobs in the middle of the eating area. Templars glare it her from the corners of the room. Before Jalyn can reply, she turns and runs away, her tiny legs running at full speed down the hallway toward the Chantry space._

_Jalyn glares at Petra. "Now look at what ya did," she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. "Pain in the arse, the lot of ya."_

"Sorry, " Jalyn says as the pause to catch their breath.

Petra raises an eyebrow at her. "What?"

"For calling you a dumb shem," Jalyn says, her voice still a blank monotone.

Petra blinks at her. "What? That was years ago, when were kids. What brought that on all of a sudden?"

"I just remembered."

Wynne glances at them both. "Do you _feel_ sorry, child?" she asks, brows scrunching. 

Jalyn opens her mouth to say 'I'm not sure' when a rage demon attacks. It makes the very air burn like a hot fire as it approaches them. Wynne and Petra fight it off, sweat pouring down their faces. Jalyn stands far away, back pressed against the wall. She can see some of the apprentice children on the other side of the room, near where the demon has pushed Wynne and Petra. Their faces show pure terror at the sight of the rage demon. Their magic is teetering on the edge of running out of control. One little girl screams, gripping her head in her hands as her body starts to shift. She screams louder, tears pouring down her face. Jalyn can do nothing but watch as a Fear demon takes hold of the child, turning her into an abomination.

Children shouldn't be pitted against demons like this. 

She meets Wynne's eyes from across the room. She nods her head, a quick jerk. Go. She mouths the word in the middle of all the screaming. _Go_.

Wynne hesitates a second before casting a spell that knocks the Rage demon across the room. She grabs the smaller of the children and Petra motions for the rest to follow.

"Jally, come on," Petra calls out.

But Jalyn is trapped, Rage now slinking its way toward her. There's no escape. But it's okay. At least the children will be safe. She watches as Wynne, Petra, and the children make their escape. Now she's alone. She can feel it burning her skin and her mind. She doesn't want to die. Not like this. Not to a demon.

A sudden blast knocks it back again and it screams as it vanishes into the ground. 

"No damnable demon is taking my favorite pupil," Leorah says, brows creased in an angry line.

_"Jalyn?" a voice says. Enchanter Leorah is there, sitting in a chair with a book in her lap._

_She sniffs. "Whatsit?" she mutters, voice hoarse from screaming and crying._

_Leorah gives her a soft smile. "I'm glad to hear you finally speak. I couldn't very well not come. How are you, my dear?" she asks._

_Her lips waver as cruel memories cloud her mind. "You wouldn't understand," she whispers._

_Leorah's expression grows dark for a moment. "I'd understand more than you think," she replies sharply. She closes her eyes, exhaling slowly through her nose, before looking at Jalyn again. "I doubt it helps ease your mind now, but the Knight-Commander has sent your assailant to Aeonar."_

_Jalyn's eyes grow wide at these revelations. "Aeonar? But he's no maleficar..."_

_"He's worse," Leorah replies, the words clipped and harsh._

_"I don't believe it," she mumbles, biting her lip again. "The templars don't punish their own."_

_Leorah sighs, placing her hand on top of Jalyn's. "Hush, for now, then. You should rest. If the templars don't think you will recover... Well, I needn't warn you what the result might be, do I?"_

_Jalyn pauses, staring at the older mage with unblinking eyes for a moment before she, too, sighs. "Yeah. Yeah, but can you stay? I- don't want to sleep if I'm alone," she says, voice barely above a whisper._

_Leorah nods, leaning back in her chair. "Go on, rest a bit then."_

Eadric grunts next to her. "Glad to know where I rank," he grumbles. "Hello, Surana."

Jalyn blinks at them both. Eadric and her had both come to the circle at the same time. Leorah had been their mentor. "Hello," she replies.

"Sorry, Eadric," Leorah says. She brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I didn't mean it that way."

He grunts. "I know."

Were they looking for her? Once she became tranquil, nobody came to see her except Melina, unless they needed supplies. And even then, they were always uncomfortable around her. Only Melina had come to see her just to talk, her bubbly chatter often interrupting Jalyn's work. 

Why are they looking for her now? She frowns, confused. She isn't supposed to feel confused. Tranquility gave her logic and reasoning. She should understand. Why isn't it making sense?

Suddenly, she feels overwhelmed with anger and fear. It burns through her, ripping into her mind. She can see flashes of the templars approaching her and the burning stench of lyrium claws at her. She screams, dropping to her knees. It's the Rite of Tranquility. She doesn't just remember it, it feels as if she's reliving it but in reverse. Ithurtsithurtsithurts!

A calm hand rests on her shoulder. "Surana?"

"NO!" she screams, shaking her head back and forth in short snaps.

"Surana!" 

Leorah's voice is firm and loud against the chaos. Jalyn looks up at her with tear stained cheeks. "The demons are so loud," she whispers. "I can remember the day they made me tranquil."

Jalyn can see her eyes widening, jaw clenching tight. "Then you must stay strong. Can you remember your Harrowing? You fought a demon, then, too. You can do this. You _must_ do this." She casts a a small spell, dispelling some of the noise and magic from the area.

The quiet emptiness of tranquility settles back into place and Jalyn can think clearly once more. Yes. She just needs to stay strong. She won't let the demons win. 

Eadric refuses to meet her eyes as they race through the circle, searching for Irving. She can tell he is uncomfortable around her, especially now. He had been her first kiss, many years ago, but they stopped talking when Jalyn started seeing Jowan. She can still remember Eadric calling her a traitor to 'their people' but she no longer felt the same kinship to her elven brethren by that point. Seeing how templars treated all mages, those had become her people. 

Now, she has no people. 


	16. Chapter 16

The tower stands tall and ominous in the middle of the lake. The docks stink of fish and it reminds Maroth of home. The moonlight glistens bright in the dark sky. He sighs, running his fingers through his long blonde hair.

_The sun glistens along the water, shining brightly as they stand on the docks together. "'Ere we are. Ready, Lala?" He puts her down, handing her the toy. "Put it in the water an' blow real hard."_

_Laylah nods, face comically serious as she grabs the toy and bends over the side of the dock. She holds the tiny string that's attached to the back of it in her hand, and reaches down toward the water. Maroth's heart skips a beat and he grabs hold of the back of her dress, just in case. But the sailboat hits the water without a hitch and he laughs to watch her blowing against the sails, trying to get it to float away._

_A slight breeze hits, pushing against the miniature sails and carrying it slowly out. The string keeps it from floating too far away, and Laylah laughs in delight as she pulls it back, only to do it again and again, laughing each time._

His heart aches to see his daughter again. To see his wife and hold her tight in his arms, warm and safe. And now here is, travelling with a bunch of friggin' shems.

Daveth slings an arm around his shoulders. "Doesn't it look inviting, Wolf?"

Maroth forces a smile. If he doesn't smile and play along, they might kill him just for fun. "Yeah, sure, can't wait," he says. He pauses a moment. "Wait, wolf?"

"Yeah, don't think I forgot, did ya?"

Ah, right. The Dark Wolf. Nessy always hated that title. Didn't like him smuggling and stealing. He can still hear her nagging him to get an honest job. But he was never a very honest man.

His belly grumbles in hunger as they walk up to the Spoiled Princess Inn. It's too late to catch a ferry to the circle. He wonders if he can pickpocket some coin off the dumb shem here so he can get something to eat. He looks across the dim lit room. It's nearly empty but the few sods he sees look too drunk to notice anything. He slides up next to one, hand ready to slip inside the man's pocket....

"Pardon me, Maroth?"

Fuck. He glances at the female mage, the one who had healed him before. "Whatsit ya want?" he grumbles. "Wasn't doin' nothin'."

She hands him a roll with cheese and ham inside it. "We haven't eaten all day. I thought you might be hungry," she says.

Maroth stares at the food, dumbfounded. She's feeding him? "Why?" he asks, full of suspicion.

She cocks her head to the side. "I don't understand, Ser. Why what?"

"Why're ya handin' me food?"

He narrows his eyes at her. He's seen shems pull this trick before. The nobles love to play this game. They'll give or sell something dirt cheap to one of his people and then turn around and tell the guards 'the dirty knife ear stole my stupid trinket!'. Then, after sitting for a few days in a dungeon with no food and dirty water, they'd offer to let 'em 'work off the debt' as a servant in their fancy noble estate. Only the debt would take their entire life to pay off. Slavery is illegal in Ferleden but the piss-eared nobles always find a way to get free work from the elves and nobody blood cares.

"S'not fallin' fer yer tricks," he says, turning away. He knows refusing is just as dangerous as accepting but at least she'll know he isn't fooled.

"Wait, please," she says.

He turns and looks at her, eyes still narrowed.

"It's not a trick. I- I don't understand. Aren't you hungry, Ser?"

Her golden brown eyes are wide as she tries to hand him the food again. "Please eat. I promise, it's not a trick. Please. Don't be angry." Her lower lip trembles as she looks at him. She's... afraid? Of _him_?

His expression softens as he stares at the girl. She looks like she might cry if he doesn't take the blasted food. "Yeah, alright," he mutters, grabbing the sandwich from her. "Guess mages ain't allowed to have slaves, anyway," he adds before taking a bite.

She crinkles her brow at him, clearly still confused. She reminds him of his younger sister, Dabria. She'd had the same wide-eyed, innocent look.

"I'm sorry if I've offended you," she whispers.

Maroth blinks at her as he chews. He's never heard a shem apologize to an elf before, least of all a thief like him. Maybe mages are a different sort? He's only ever met one before. A girl from the alienage's orphange turned out to be a mage. He can still remember the way she kicked and screamed when the templars came to take her away. She'd been a little spitfire back then. Always bested him in games, too. 

"Oiy, Wolf! There ya are," Daveth says. He's grinning as he joins them. "Here, eat this."

Maroth stares at him, completely dumbfounded. "Whatsit? Why in the Void are ya lot tryin' ta feed me?"

"Uh," Daveth says, glancing at Melina. "Because we're a team?"

A team? With a bunch of shem? Not bloody likely. He looks down at the small plate of cheese. He wants to knock it to the ground. "S'not hungry," he replies. "Don't eat that much."

Daveth nods. "Right, you're not a warden so your appetite isn't like ours."

"What do you mean?" Melina asks.

Daveth shrugs. "Never mind. Hey, Wolf. I need your help, right ?" He hands him a dirty piece of paper with barely legible writing.

_Andraste ded magic ashes???_

_note on ded templer genitiv is key_

_wear missing nights?? templer lost?_

_night donel say ashes real_

_Denerim? Howse find_

"Wat... Whatsit?" Maroth asks, trying to understand the poor writing. Reading had never been something he worked too hard at, but he was pretty sure half these words were spelled wrong. Probably. "Yer a nutter. Magic ashes?"

Daveth grins. "Weren't you a werewolf recently?" he points out.

"Fair 'nough," Maroth admits. "Whatsit ya want from me?"

Daveth grins. "I want you to be the Dark Wolf. Fetch me some information. Barkeeps tend to know a lot, right? They hear rumours from all over through travellers."

Maroth glances over at the portly barkeep. His brows are low and a permanent scowl is etched into his forehead. "Why me?"

"Should I ask Melina here to do it?" Daveth asks, raising an eyebrow.

Melina lets out a small squeak at her name being mentioned. "I- I will try my best-"

Maroth lets out a short burst of laughter at the shy and timid mage trying to spy on anyone. "Yeah, I hear ya, right? I'll go."

"There's a good Wolf," Daveth quips.

Maroth tries not to roll his eyes. His whole body feels exhausted from pretending to like these people. Each time Daveth touches him, his skin crawls. Humans aren't nice to elves. The only one he'd ever met that was decent folk was Jenny. But Jenny was from Tevinter, and understood what it felt like to be a slave. 

There's a minstrel in the corner, playing a small harp looking thing as he pulls his cloak over his head. The tune is familiar and memories echo in his head. He slows his breath, melting into the shadows. He stays hidden along the edges of the room as he makes his way toward the barkeep. The man's eyes are small and beady and dart around nervously. Maroth frowns as he notices the shem constantly checking the corners of the room, like there's someone watching him. 

Maroth narrows his eyes. There it is. In the far back corner. There's a man there, hiding and watching. Why? What does he want? Maroth lowers his hood and steps out the shadows. He lets his eyes lose their focus and hunches his back. "Oiy, more wine!" he says, stumbling over to the bar. "Oiy there, pour ta wine an' keep it comin, yeah? Ain't drunk 'nuf yet," he says, slurring his words together. He forces out a small hiccup and grins. "Put it on ta warden's tab, yeah?"

The barkeep shifts from foot to foot, eyes darting around. He grabs of bottle of cheap wine and pours it in a dirty glass. "Here," he says.

Maroth holds back a shiver at the filth. He could find better wine than this in the back alley taverns in Denerim. The glass looks like it's never been washed before but he chugs it quickly and slams it on the table. "Another," he says, grinning. He lets a bit of drool hang from his mouth, dribbling down his chin. "Don't stop ta pourin', friend."

He pours him another glass and shoves it toward him. "Maybe I should just give you the whole damn bottle," he grumbles.

Maroth takes a few more swigs before laying his head down. "Right, jus' restin' a moment, yeah?" he mumbles, closing his eyes. After a few seconds past he starts snoring, lightly. Nothing too obvious, just a soft snoring sound.

"Fucking elves, can't hold their liquor," the barkeep mutters.

Maroth continues pretending to sleep, waiting. He knows the dumb shem will slip soon. Nobody pays any attention to a drunken, passed out elf. 

"Hey, Keith, them weirdos still here?"

Maroth grins inwardly. Finally.

"Shh, you dummy! They're always listening."

"Why're they here still?" the newcomer whines. "Feels strange being watched."

"Do you want to die? Those damn cultists will kill us both, if they here you yammering on like this."

"I don't get what's so special about this Haven, anyway," the other man grumbles. "Or why keep killing our customers."

"Shut up, damn you."

"But what about that Brother Genitivi? Ain't right, hurting a man of the cloth like that. Maker won't like it."

"If you don't shut up, I'll sew your lips shut myself."

"Eh, nobody listening but a dumb knife ear, and he's sleeping."

Maroth waits a few more minutes before slowly sitting up. "Whatsit? How long was I out?" he asks, wiping the drool from his chin.

The barkeep, presumably named Keith, shrugs. "Dunno. Wasn't paying attention," he mutters, glancing toward the corners.

Maroth grabs the dirty glass, a bit of wine still in it. He takes a sip. "Ya seem nervous, friend."

Keith chuckles. "What? No, uh, I'm not nervous. Don't know what you're on about, kni-" He stops, cheeks turning red. "Uh, sorry," he mutters.

Maroth curls his lip as he glares at the man. "Yer a daft fool, shem," he mutters. He gets up from his seat, still hunched over, and walks over to Daveth.

"Find anything, Wolf?" he asks, clapping him on the shoulder. 

Maroth shrugs. "Probably. Tell ya in the mornin', yeah? Goin' ta bed."

Melina curtsies to him as he passes. Maybe there's at least one other shem that ain't so bad, he thinks, sending her a small grin.

He lays awake for hours, mind abuzz with thoughts. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is the dead body of his wife. He can still hear her screaming as Vaughn raped her over and over again. He was helpless to stop it, utterly powerless to save her. 

_ "Yeah, I'm Jenny, and this here is Sera, right. Why don't we go up ta my room where we can talk in private?" _

He never should have gotten involved with that lot. Life had been simple, before that. Nessy didn't like his smuggling job, but it wasn't dangerous. They never messed with the nobles and the guards looked the other way so long as they'd didn't cause too much trouble. It was easy, fun work. But Jenny and Sera were all about playing tricks on the nobles and giving free coin to the poor. Seemed like an innocent enough idea, at the time. 

_ "Papa! Play with me!" Laylah tugs his arm, and he barely moves the brush away in time before it smears paint down his project. _

_ "Blasted void," he shouts, pushing away from the desk. "Shite, Laylah , go play somewhere else. I don't have time for games." _

The more time he had spent with Sera, Jenny, and Slim; the less time he spent at home with his family. And what time he did spend there was filled with shouting matches with Nessy. She hated him being gone so often.

_ "I want Papa," Laylah sobs, and Maroth's heart cracks at the sound. _

_ He opens his mouth to reply but Nesiara cuts him off. "Not a word, husband. Just... go. You're going to, anyway." She turns abruptly, walking back into the house.  _

Still, the jobs Jenny gave him were never too bad. Steal a fancy sword, paint a dumb box. Simple stuff. At least, at first.

_Jenny quirks an eyebrow his way, a smirk twisting her lips. "You've heard of Vaughan Kendells, right?"_

_At the name Kendells, Maroth's blood boils. The Kendell family is the one who had killed his mother when he was little. He has only the faintest memories of Adaia, of her dark skin and willful smile. She had taught him how to use a dagger, before the Arl had her killed._

_"I know them," he replies, tone a low growl. "W'at the frig ya want with them?"_

_"W'at do I ever want with a shittin' noble? To rob 'em blind an' help out the people who really matter."_

_"No," he replies, shaking his head firmly. "I'm done with that, fer awhile. Nessy's got stew waiting fer me. I'll see ya 'round, Jenny."_

_Jenny shrugs as he gets to his feet. "I guess this one is too much of a challenge fer the Dark Wolf," she agrees. She walks closer to him, pressing her chest against his arm. She bats her eyelashes up at him. "Such a shame, right? All that coin, an' the Kendell family gets to keep it all." She sighs, pulling away. "Ah, well."_

_"I didn't say it was too hard," he grumbles. "Shite. Ya said that just to get me ta go along with it, didn't ya?"_

_She flashes him a grin. "Did it work?"_

_Maroth shrugs, glancing over at his daughter. "Yeah, I suppose it did."_

And that had always been his downfall. Pride. We was so full of pride and arrogance that nobody could catch the infamous Dark Wolf that lead to his whole world being destroyed. It still feels strange to him. One day, he was waking up with Nessy in his bed, their daughter begging for extra toast with her breakfast and the next morning he was chained in the Arl's dungeon.

He'd sacrifice his own life to bring them all back, to undo everything. 

It's suffocating, travelling with the Wardens. Sometimes he can't help but think he should have stayed with the Dalish. " _Please, you should stay with our clan instead. You're an elf, you belong with us."_ Lanaya's words echo around his mind. She's wrong though, and he knows it. He isn't meant for forests and campfire songs. That life isn't for him. He wonders if his daughter is happy, with Merrill and her clan. He doesn't deserve to be happy.


	17. Chapter 17

Kinloch Hold sits shadowed against a bright full moon. The lake glistens as they row across, gleaming in its murky darkness. Melina sits at the back of the ferry, hands folded in her lap. Her heart aches as she remembers Kester's words of warning that something terrible has happened. Kester had been kind to her when she first came to the Tower. He snuck her a bit of cookie when the templars weren't looking, and to see him without his ferry, the Lissie, is heartbreaking. 

Carroll glares down at her, eyebrows furrowed together in a way that makes her uncomfortable, as he rows them across the tepid lake. She looks away, glancing toward Alistair instead. He sits next to her, face stoic as they come ever closer to Kinloch Hold. she wants o reach out, touch his cheek, and comfort him. But that would be silly. Mages don't bring comfort to people, least of all templars.

A wave of impenetrable darkness slams into her, stealing her breath as she clutches at her chest. Tears fall from her eyes as the nightmarish aura beats against her head, like a thousand lost voices screaming in pain and rage. Her knees hit the base of the ferry, bruising her flesh as she struggles to breath past the pain ripping through her. 

A calm hand rests on her shoulder and she can hear Alistair's voice through the haze. "Mels, what is it? Are you alright?" 

She shakes her head, tears streaming down her plump cheeks. "Maker, I can't... It's too much," she whispers.

Suddenly a soft, warm feeling enters her, chasing back the darkness, forming a gentle barrier around her core. "There, is that better?" Alistair asks, brows furrowed as she looks into his eyes.

Melina remembers him telling her he's a templar as well as a warden, and smiles her gratitude. "Thank the Maker for you, Alistair," she replies.

Maroth grunts on her other side, handing her a small bit of tattered cloth. It's rough against her fingertips; a dark green with delicate embroidery. "Here, take it. Dry yer eyes now, right, an' toughen up. If it feels that bad comin' up to the blasted place, I imagine inside's gonna feel a shite bit worse." He mutters the words harshly, but his hands are gentle when he passes her the cloth.

Daveth looks back at the them from his seat at the front of the ferry, a smirk twisting his lips. "Well, so much fer this bein' easy. Morrigan, you feel alright?"  
She scoffs, glaring up at the tower. "I am fine." She curls her lip. "'Tis nothing more than a prison, just as mother warned."

Alistair frowns before shaking his head, his templar powers still giving of a soft radiance of warmth. He glances over at Melina. "Mels, if you'd rather sit this one out, and go back to the tavern... ."

Melina firmly shakes her head, lips pursed tight. "Beg pardon, but no. This my home. My friends live here. I have to help. I know if Jalyn were... I can't leave now. I have to save her, I have to. I swear I won't be in the way," she replies, clutching the strange fabric of her new robes in her fists. She also has to save Cullen. Oh please, Maker, let him be okay, she adds silently.

Alistair nods, placing a hand a top her head to ruffle her curls. "Alright, I believe you. We'll save who we can."

Carroll clears his throat, a deep gravelly sound. "Alright you lot, we're here. Get out and be about your business now."

The doors creak with an ominous sound as they're pulled open, candlelight flickering from inside. An air of despair seeps through, brushing against her as she clutches the folds of her robes in her fists. Her mind screams at her to run, that this place is wrong somehow, but she straightens her shoulders and pushes through. She can't give up. For Jalyn and Cullen and Wynne, she just can't.

The smell of rotting bodies hits her hard and bile rises in the back of her throat. She can feel the death, a decaying stench that permeates the air. Demons howl in the distance, their voices a deep growl that echo in her ears. She shudders, a cold chill settling at the base of her spine. She reaches for her pendant she had found in Lothering, shaped like Andraste, and grips it tightly in her fist. _But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me._

Knight-Commander Greagoir greets them with a scowl, his bushy dark grey eyebrows pulled tight together. "What's this? No one is to enter or leave the tower. It isn't secure," he says, silver armour clanking as he walks toward them.

Melina steps forward, curtsying as she meets his eyes. "Knight-Commander, I've come with the last of the Grey Wardens who seek the aide of the mages against the Blight. What's happened here?" 

Recognition flashes in his eyes. "What in the Maker's name... you survived? Wynne said everyone else died... Thank the Maker..." His voice trails off in amazement as he stares at her, lips parted, before he shakes his head and resumes speaking. "It doesn't matter, we're in no state to help the Wardens now. You can feel it, can't you, girl? It's chaos here. I'm awaiting the Right of Annulment."

"Please, Ser, let us help. We can save them, I know we can," she replies, taking a step closer, eyes pleading. 

Daveth steps forward, his Grey Warden armour catching the low beams of candlelight. "I know what you lot have goin' on here seems terrible, but the Blight won't be stopped without allies to fight it."

The Knight-Commander shakes his head, regret flashing in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Warden, but I cannot risk anymore of my men to this madness. Once the Right arrives, and the tower has been purged, the remaining templars can assist you against the Blight."

Alistair clears his throat. "Pardon me, Knight-Commander, but I had templar training before I joined the Wardens. I know what we would be up against in there, and it's worth the risk. No Grey Warden can defeat a Blight alone, even with our special skills. We need the mages, however dangerous things here might be right now." Alistair's face is kept bland, unblinking as he meets the Knight-commander's steady gaze. His fingers twitch behind his back, where only Melina can see.

Greagoir stands there, stock still, for a moment. He doesn't blink, and Melina can tell he's carefully regarding the words Alistair has spoken. Finally, he lets out a sigh, eyes full of weariness, and nods. "Alright, but I can't let you back out unless I hear from Irving himself. Otherwise, you'll be trapped in there, too, when the Right comes."

Melina smiles. "Ha-Have you... That is, do you know who is in there?" 

Greagoir frowns, shaking his head. "Everyone is in there, child, except those you see standing around you. I'm sure most of them have turned into abominations or are dead. I'm afraid you won't find many survivors."

Her heart plummets to her stomach, a heavy weight covering her like an oppressive blanket of dark thoughts. Maker, how could this have happened? Kinloch Hold is supposed to be safe. Her eyes widen as a thought hits her, hard like a punch to the gut. "The tranquil..." she whispers, words trailing off at the end.

The Knight-commander nods, eyes filling with pity. "They're still in there, as well. Surana should be near Owain, if she's still alive."

Melina flinches, burying her face in her hands. "Oh, Jalyn, she has to be safe. The tranquil can't be turned, right? They're safe, they have to be."

Alistair lays a hand on her shoulder. "We should hurry, if we're to save your friend," he reminds her gently.

"Right, let's not waste more time talkin' when there's shit to do. Come on, let's get this over with," Daveth adds, eyes shifting nervously toward the door that holds back the demons and abominations howling within. "Bloody friggin' mages," he mutters.

Maroth raises an eyebrow at the warden. "Ya afraid of magic, Daveth?" he asks.

Daveth shrugs, thumb rubbing along the hilt of his dagger. "I grew up with tales of them Witches of the Wilds, right? My mum used to use tales of Flemeth to scare me into being good as kid."

"So yer superstitious," Maroth replies. 

Daveth frowns, brown eyes full of annoyance. "It ain't superstition if it's true," he mutters.

Morrigan raises an eyebrow at this. "Does my mother truly frighten you so? Then what of me? Do I frighten you?"

He shakes his head. "Your mother, yes. You, no. I trust you."

She blinks rapidly at the response and Melina can tell it wasn't the one she had been expecting. Alistair scoffs but doesn't say anything.

Greagoir just grunts again, motioning for the templars to open the doors for them. Melina straightens her shoulders and grips her staff tightly in her hands. _O' Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights. Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked, make me to rest in the warmest places._

  
~*~*~

Burning fire scorches her skin as a blood mage shoots flames at her. She recognizes the face of one she had once called friend, a fellow student she had practiced spells with when they were still apprentices. Children scream in fear behind her, and she erects a barrier to shield them from the blast.

Her eyes dart around, making sure her companions are safe, and sees Maroth limping as he uses his spear to pierce an abomination's grotesque flesh. She sends a healing spell toward him, gently knitting the broken bone and bruised flesh. Petra encases the creature in ice, lips turned down in a hard line as she fights next to Wynne. The two mages work in tandem to defeat a large rage demon, shooting spells so quick that Melina can't tell who is firing what as Daveth darts and rolls between them.

Kinnon shouts a warning at her and she raises another barrier just in time to avoid pellets of rock hitting her in the face. She furrows her brow and calls up her mana, sending arcane bolts toward the blood mage attacking her. The children behind her are crying, heavy sobs that punctuate the air even through the sounds of battle. How anyone could harm such innocent, small children... It sparks an intense anger she wasn't aware she had inside her, and she throws a lightening bolt toward the mage she had once called friend. He screams in pain, and the thick smell of burning flesh fills the air as his skin crackles and pops.

He's dead. A brief feeling of horror fills her but she pushes it aside. She had to. There was no other way to protect the children.

She turns her attention toward Alistair as the warden blocks a blast of fire. It burns along his skin, despite his metal shield, and she envelopes him in a barrier spell to protect him from the blunt of the blast. Morrigan sends a boulder toward the mage, knocking her to the ground, and Alistair spins his sword around, piercing through her chest as blood stains the stone.

As the battle ends, the last of the blood mages, abominations, and demons finally vanquished, Melina feels her energy leave her in a rush. She turns, eyelids heavy, toward the children and offers them a small smile. 

"Are you alright?" she asks, recognizing most of them. Greagoir had allowed her to hold weekly reading sessions for the children, and while it was usually Chant of Light verses she read, sometimes Wynne would give her a book of fables. Her moments spent telling the stories were always her favourite.

A little red-headed girl named Lydia, steps forward, thumb in her mouth. She buries her face into Melina's skirts, tears pouring down her face. "It's scary," she mumbles, clutching Melina's robe tightly in her little fists. "Why are they trying to hurt us?"

Melina kneels down, embracing the girl and patting her hair. "It's alright, the Maker will protect you, sweetheart. And so will we," she whispers.

Daveth stumbles over to her, blood pouring from a wound in his side. His skin is pallid, sweat dripping down his face. "If ya don't mind, I could use some of that healing magic of yours," he says with a grunt. Melina gets to her feet, a reply on the tip of her tongue when Wynne interrupts.

"Here, I can take care of that, young man," she says, her wispy grey hair falling in sweat-slicked tendrils around her wrinkled face. She casts a quick healing spell that seems to fill the room, healing any scrapes or deep wounds in a single breath. "There now, that's better," she says. 

Melina smiles at her mentor, wishing she could run to her and hug her tightly. "I had thought you died at Ostagar, Senior Enchanter. Maker, but I'm so glad you yet live," she says, eyes shining. "Do you know how the others fair? What of Evelina?" 

Wynne shakes her head, aging lips turning down into a deep frown. "I haven't seen Evelina, child I'm not sure she made it back from Ostagar."

Daveth grins. "You alright there, Alistair? This ain't so bad, right? Nothin' we mighty Grey Wardens can't defeat, ey?" His tone is drier than normal, and Melina can tell he's struggling to hide his fear.

"Don't worry, Ser Daveth. If we work together, we'll get through this," she assures him.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, lips curving into a lopsided smile. "Well ain't you our little ray of sunshine, eh?" He chuckles, shaking his head. 

Alistair joins them, hand reaching out almost instinctively to ruffle her hair. He gives her a small smile, eyes twinkling. "Stay optimistic, Mels. We'll need that, here especially."

Wynne looks between the three. She sighs, shaking her head. "We need to hurry if we're to save the circle."

Daveth nods his agreement, motioning for Maroth. "Right. Well, you lot can stay here and watch the children. We'll continue on and- Why are you shakin' your head, old woman?" 

Wynne meets his gaze head on, shoulder straight as a rod. "I may be old, child, but don't think I can't still take out my walking stick and smack you in the head for your impudence. I'm going with you, of course. I know the tower better than you Wardens, and can guide you through it."

Alistair rubs the back of his neck. "Uh, that's kind of you to offer and all, but Mels can guide us just fine."

Melina beams but Wynne just frowns deeper. "Melina should stay with the children. Someone as...," She pauses, glancing over at her for a moment before continuing. "Someone as delicate as her shouldn't face the demons we're bound to encounter."

Her heart sinks at Wynne's words, disappointment flooding her. She opens her mouth to speak, but Alistair replies before she has a chance.

"Mels has been with us from the start, and she's staying with us," Alistair says. "If you really insist on coming along, that's fine, but we're **not** leaving our friend behind."

Daveth nods his agreement, bumping his shoulder with Melina's. "She's tougher than she looks, yeah? Now let's stop this fight and be on our way. We've got demons to slay and shit."

Melina feels her heart swell with gratitude at their words, shocked that they would come to her defense so quickly. She curtsies. "I won't let you down, I swear it," she says, fingers trembling as she holds the edges of the tattered robes in her hands.

Wynne sighs, nodding. "Alright, then lets go. Petra and the others will watch over the children."

Daveth runs a hand through his hair. "Bloody shittin' demon-infested tower," he grumbles, heading toward the next room with his daggers held at the ready. "I hate demons."

Maroth chuckles, following after him. "Right, well I don't think anyone likes demons, shem."

Alistair snorts, the sound somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "Well, someone did to summon so many of the blighted things."

"Wynne... Did you see Jalyn in there?"

She hesitates. "No, child, I didn't."

~*~*~

  
With each battle, Melina grows more weary. Fatigue and hopelessness claw at her mind as she watches more of her former friends change into horrific abominations.

Wynne looks over at her, and hands her a flask of water. "What is it, child? You have something on your mind?" Her normally gentle tone is edged with a sharpness Melina isn't used to, and she flinches as she reaches for the canteen.

The metal is cold against her fingers as she takes a long drink. The water is warm against the back of her throat, but still soothing and wet. Melina takes a moment to collect her thoughts before responding, unsure of how to say what she's thinking. "Pardon me if my question is impudent, Senior Enchanter, but how did this happen with no one suspecting it? Shouldn't we have... felt it coming?" She keeps her eyes glued to the floor, staring at the blood stains.

Wynne lets out a heavy sigh. "I don't know, child. I trusted Uldred. His ideas have always been somewhat fanatic but we studied together in our youth. He was a good man, once. I'm not sure when that changed, but I never thought to look for any form of corruption in him." She places a gentle hand on Melina's head. "It seems as though I've been harsh with you, doesn't it? You'll have to forgive an old woman her worry. As mentors, we come to care for all our students but you were always a special one. I suppose I've come to care for you more than the others, and I feared I lost you once already. I thought if I kept you from venturing further into the tower, you'd be safer. And we've been fighting these monsters for weeks now. I'm old, and tired, and I should not have been so harsh."

Melina's lips are parted as she stands there, holding the partially empty flask. Her heart skips a beat, as she processes Wynne's words. "I thought you found me weak," she finally whispers.

Wynne quirks an eyebrow in her direction, the dark circles under her eyes standing out in stark relief against the grey paleness of her skin. "Ah, did it seem that way? I suppose it did. I'm sorry, child. I'm an old woman, and some days I feel it more than others."

"You're not old at all," Melina assures her, heart a bit lighter than it has been in weeks. Wynne cocks an eyebrow at her, and she giggles in response. "Well, maybe just a little. But you're stronger than anyone I know. You'll be fine, I know it."

"Hmph," Wynne scoffs. "Well, we better get a move on. And thank you, my dear, for listening to an old woman's prattling."

Daveth motions for them to join them, a smear of blood covering his chin. "How much further we got until we reach this Uldred fellow? Or Irving? Blasted stairs are a pain in the arse."

"Well, it _is_ a tower, Daveth," Alistair replies.

Daveth makes a rude gesture toward his fellow warden. "Right, well I've seen enough bleedin' towers to last a life time, haven't I? And there's never anything good once we reach the top, neither. If there's another ogre in this one, by the Maker's hairy nutsack I'm goin' to be right pissed."

Maroth laughs, the sound a deep rumble. "An ogre? Well that sounds like about as much fun as the shittin' dragon I found."

Melina's eyes grow wide. "A- A real dragon? Truly?"

"Well, it might 'ave been a tiny one," Maroth admits with a shrug. "Anyway, we're more likely ta find some new breed of abomination or somethin, innit though?"

"What a cheery thought," Alistair replies, tone dry. "Right, we better get a move on. I feel something ahead. Not quite sure what it is, but it's worse than what we've encountered so far."

Daveth grunts, rolling his deep brown eyes. "Speakin' of cheery thoughts." He glances at Morrigan. "Here, drink before we go on up," he says, handing her some water.

Her cheeks turn a light shade of pink as she takes the flask. She doesn't thank the warden, though, just quickly drinks and hands it back.

They enter another room and Melina gasps. "Jalyn!"

She rushes to her friend's side. Jalyn's body is on the ground, curled into a tight ball. She has a scroll bunched up in her hand, and her eyelids flutter as if she is sleeping.

"Oh look. Visitors. I'd entertain you but... Too much effort involved."

Melina turns to see a twisted form gliding toward them. Small spikes stick out of his back and something about the way he speaks is familiar. 

"Sloth?" She whispers the question. No, this can't be the same, gentle bear who posed riddles in the Fade during her Harrowing. It had been... Well, not kind, but not evil either. 

The demon looks at her. "I know you," it says. 

Alistair holds his sword tight in his hands. "Why does it say it knows you, Mels?"

"He was there," she replies. "At my Harrowing. But he didn't look like this then. What did you do to Jalyn?"

"She's just resting. Poor girl. She was so very, very weary. I have saved her from the others. You want to join us, don't you? Wouldn't you like to just lay down and... forget about all this? Leave it all behind?"

Melina shakes her head. "Please, don't do this. This isn't right. You weren't like this before. Please," she says, cradling Jalyn's head in her lap. 

Wynne narrows her eyes. "You don't plead with a demon, child," she snaps.

"I think you know far less about demons than you think," Morrigan replies, lip curled. "You, demon. You have no power over me. Begone."

Sloth tilts it's head as it looks at them. "Why do you fight? You deserve more... You deserve a rest. The world will go on without you."

  
~*~*~

  
Melina blinks, her whole body heavy and lethargic. Where in the Maker's name is she? She looks around, taking in her surroundings and trying to remember what she had been doing. A thin, wool blanket lays across her legs. She can hear shouting from outside her door. The floor is cold beneath her feet as she wanders toward the sound.

"I never should have married you! Stupid bitch, look what you've done! You're not even good for breeding with your cursed magic line; least you could do is cook my dinner without burning it."

"Fa-father?" Melina whispers. 

He turns his angry gaze toward her. "I told you to stay in your room," he growls, coming toward her with a closed fist. "Do I need to beat obedience into you again?"

"No, please, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to, please," she begs, cowering as he looms over her. 

A woman steps through the doorway without a sound. Her long ebony hair is piled loose around her head, falling in soft tendrils to frame her heart-shaped face. Her skin is a pale, soft blue undertone that reminds Melina of ice. Her full lips are deep red. As she walks, her chocolate brown robes swish against the stone floor, the silken fabric whispering as she glides toward Melina. The neckline is deep and plunging, revealing large breasts held up by a tightly pulled corset done in red velvet.

The woman snaps her fingers and her father freezes in place. Is this... a dream?

Melina drops a curtsy out of habit, but keeps her eyes on the strange woman. "Pardon me, but who are you?" she asks, feeling wary of the girl.

The woman smiles, a quick turn of her lips. "You may call me Izanami. I have come to offer you a choice."

"You're a demon," Melina accuses, stepping back. "Stay back! I'll make no deals with your ilk." Her voice wavers and she wishes the other were here, remembering in a rush the demon who has lulled them into the Fade. 

Izanami pouts, pursing her lips together. Her golden eyes twinkle with amusement though as she regards Melina. "You hurt my feelings, mortal. I am not a demon, and I've come to help you. I could sense your thoughts from my realm, and he has placed you here as a plaything for a nearby demon he commands."

"He?" Melina questions, confusion a thick fog that clouds her brain. 

"Mmhmm. He is Sloth, the one who controls this area. He has a few lesser of our brethren under his command, each one holding your friends in twisted nightmares of their own memories. Not that it used to be this way, of course. You mortals ruined that."

Melina's mouth feels dry as she lets out a slow breath. She holds her Andraste pendant in her hand, the chain cold against her throat, and rubs the worn figure with her thumb. "Maker save us." 

"Your friends lay trapped by twisted spirits that reveal their own hidden... sins, if you will. The demon that awaits you is one of Fear, a spirit that has been twisted from Hope. But I can offer you a choice before you face it, a way to... How do you mortals say it? Add an extra feather to your cap?"

Melina shakes her head, heart pounding. "Wynne warned me of your kind, and I don't make deals with demons," she whispers. A soft buzzing forms around her head, and a glowing light appears. It hums a soft, soothing sound, and she recognizes it as the spirit from her Harrowing.

Izanami frowns, eyes narrowed at the wisp. "Pesky little creature, begone," she says, eyes flashing. "Faith isn't needed here."

The wisp just glows a little brighter before entering Melina. She gasps, eyes widening as she listens to the loud rumbling sound of the Faith spirit inside her. A calming warmth, a pure emotion she can't describe, runs through her.

"Well, that puts quite the crimp in my plan, as you say. Ah well, I can still offer you a choice, mortal. Perhaps this one will be more fun, after all. Yes, I think it will. Choices are more fun when they're difficult ones."

Melina opens her mouth to reply, but Izanami cuts her off with a simple wave of her hand. "Ah, hear me out before you deny me my offer. You have two trapped with this place who you hold most dear. Your friend, Jalyn Surana, the elven mage. For now, her tranquility holds. It keeps her safe, but that will not last. The demon who rules the island where she's kept will touch her mind, breaking her tranquility. When this happens, her emotions will return and drive her insane, allowing the demon to possess her easily."

Melina's hear skips a beat at the demon's words, and the Spirit of Faith inside her confirms the truth of it. Her palms are sweaty as she licks her lips, but she can't bring herself to interrupt the demon again.

"I see I finally have your attention. Good," Izanami continues. Her lips split into a wide grin, her shiny teeth gleaming in the candlelight. "I can save your friend from this fate, you see. I can cure her from her tranquility in smaller doses, so that she is not overwhelmed. It will take time, however, and time is of the essence, they say."

"How will you do this?" Melina asks, knowing she shouldn't ask. But if she can cure Jalyn... She has to know.

Izanami takes a step closer, tapping a perfectly painted nail against her lips. "I would need to inhabit a body, of course, and enter your strange mortal realm. From there, I can slowly guide her back to normality over the course of time."

Melina gulps, sweat trickling down the nape of her neck. "You want to possess me to do this?" The idea terrifies her, but her desire to save Jalyn burns strong inside her, a desperate feeling that makes her legs shake.

The demon chuckles, the sound sending a shiver down Melina's spine. "That was my hope," she admits. "But alas, your body is now protected by Faith. Two is company, but three is a crowd." Izanami laughs at her own joke, shaking her head in amusement. "However, here is your choice mortal: You can only save one of the two for whom you care for. Jalyn, the one who became tranquil to save you, or Wynne, the elderly mage past her prime. If you choose Jalyn, then I will take Wynne's body before the Pride demon possesses it, and we will rescue Jalyn together. If you choose Wynne, then Jalyn will turn into a Rage abomination when the demon takes her. The choice is yours, my mortal friend."

"Wh-what if I choose neither?"

"Inaction is a choice as well, my dear. Choosing to do nothing dooms Jalyn as surely as if you had chosen Wynne."

Melina sits down on the ground with a heavy thump, heart pounding fast. Maker's breath, how can she make such a choice? Her hands shake, folded in her lap, and she clenches them into fists until her knuckles turn white. She can't do this. It isn't her place to make such a choice. Surely, Jalyn wouldn't want to be saved at the expense of letting a demon roam free.

Flashes of memories come crashing through her mind. She can see Jalyn standing before her, brow furrowed in a frown. Her hand darts out to wipe away Melina's tears from another nightmare. "W'ats this, shem? Ya cryin' again?" Her accent is still heavy, and her thin frame is smaller still. "C'mere, then. I'll sing a song my ma use ta sing ta me." Her voice was always off key, but it was softer then, still holding the high pitched sound of a child's. Melina never understood the words, and Jalyn had admitted neither did she, but they were warm and brought them both comfort when they felt alone. 

How can she leave Jalyn to become an abomination? The Spirit of Faith buzzes louder, but she can't tell if it's in agreement or warning.

Izanami sighs, eyes flashing dangerously. "Time is a-wasting, mortal. Make your choice."

Melina gets to her feet, tears flowing down her cheeks. She thinks of Wynne, of the gentle and wise guidance she's always provided. Wynne has always been like a mother to her.

"I choose... Jalyn," she whispers, pain shooting through her as she collapses to her knees.

"Now, now mortal. Do be careful, dear. A spirit lives within you. If you allow your emotions to take control, you could corrupt it. You wouldn't want to taint the poor thing, would you? If it becomes corrupted, so too, do you."

Melina takes a few deep breaths, pushing her emotions down below the surface. She closes her eyes, palms flat against the ground. She can't fail, she can't. 

_My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace, touch me with fire that I be cleansed, tell me I have sung to Your approval. Please, Andraste, guide me to His ways, and forgive me my trespasses. I have sinned but still Your endless love I hold in my heart so that one day I may be pure again._

Her eyelids flutter open, breathes coming in and out in a slow, steadier rhythm. Gingerly, she rises to her feet, clutching her pendant tight in her fist. The spirit within her hums quietly, a soft purring sound that shows it feels at peace, at least for the moment.

"We must hurry before it is too late, mortal. Come, take my hand. "

  
~*~*~

  
Melina blinks past the tears in her eyes as she watches Wynne lying on a small cot. A baby cries in the distance, wailing so loud Melina wishes she could help it. But it's just an illusion, brought on by the Regret demon that holds Wynne captive.

Wynne leans up on her elbows, grabbing a hold of figure that looks strangely like a younger version of the First Enchanter. "Where are they taking my child? Do I not even get to look at his face before they whisk him away?"

Impostor Irving pulls his arm out her grasp. "You decided to give the child up. If you regret your choice now, there is nothing to be done."

Wynne sticks out her chin, eyes flashing. "I regret nothing," she replies.

He raises an eyebrow out at her. "No? Not even your dalliance with the Knight-captain?"

Wynne narrows her eyes. "You promised to keep that a secret. If they knew, Greagoir would lose his position."

"Perhaps you should have thought of that before you slept with him," the creature impersonation Irving replies with a cold sneer. 

Melina's eyes widen with shock. "Th-This isn't real, is it? Wynne would never... The Knight Commander wouldn't..."

Izanami simply nods, tucking a strand of her hair behind a delicately curved ear. "It is, or at least as real as your Wynne remembers it. Time often colours these things, does it not?"

"I wouldn't know," Melina murmurs, still in shock over the revelation. 

"Now, gaze upon me one last time, mortal. The next time we speak, I will appear like an old woman," Izanami replies, voice dripping with disdain.

She turns into a dark black cloud of smoke and wafts over toward Wynne. The demon slips inside her before Wynne can speak, but a look of sheer horror twists her face as Izanami takes hold.

"Irving" roars, the sound echoing in the room, as his body shifts, bones popping. Bony protrusions cover his body, and his skin turns a deep purple as he grows in size. "I will not allow this," it says with a growl, attacking.

Melina sends out a cone of cold toward the beast, freezing it in place while Izanami-Wynne attacks. The Pride demon is dead in what feels like a second, and Izanami stalks toward Melina. Wynne's eyes glow with a golden hue for a moment, before settling back into their normal hue.

"I don't understand. Our bodies aren't here, so how did you possess her?" Melina asks, looking away.

"The same as your Faith spirit. I melded with her mind. Faith and Choice are powerful things, mortal. The blending will be complete once you all awaken. For now, it's a partial blend. I have her mind, but not her body."

  
~*~*~

  
Jalyn stands motionless as a fiery Rage demon slinks toward her, the burning beast chuckling madly. Izanami smirks and the expression looks strange upon Wynne's face.

"Rage demons are so easily defeated for one of my power. This is no fun at all," she says with a sigh. With a quick flick of the wrist, she holds the demon still, frozen in place by some strange magic that makes Melina feel sick to her stomach. Izanami turns to her, eyebrow raised. "Come now, I only said I would help, not do all the work for you," she chides, wagging her finger much like Wynne. 

Melina wipes away the tears pricking at the corner of her eyes before sending bolts of lightening toward the demon manifestation of rage. It shocks through the creature and a strange burning smell of sulfur and ash fills the air, making Melina gag as it coats the back of her throat.

Izanami rolls her eyes, a bored sigh escaping her lips. She snaps her fingers and a menacing hiss echos through the air. "What a silly mortal you are, attacking a thing made of fire with a spell made of heat." The air turns bitter cold as the rage demon turns to ice, drops of snow coating the entire area. The beast lets out one final roar before shattering into icy shards and Izanami lets out a frigid laugh. "There, isn't that much better? You have much to learn, mortal. Do not worry, I will share with you some of my knowledge as we travel the mortal realm together. And with no extra cost. Consider it a thank you for not revealing my existence to the companions who trusted you so."

Her words bite along Melina's skin, hissing cruelly in her heart. Shoulders sagging, she walks over to Jalyn and grabs her hands. "You're safe now, love. I'm so sorry I couldn't reach you sooner," she says, pulling her in for a tight hug.

Jalyn does not return the hug, arms limp at her side. "That was a most uncomfortable experience," she replies instead, voice still monotone. "It is good you came when you did."

Izanami joins them, fingers brushing against the mark that brands Jalyn's forehead. "What a hideous thing, and so unnecessary. You do know what this mark means, don't you child?" she asks, mimicking Wynne now that they're no longer alone.

Melina shakes her head, curls bouncing. "It's the symbol of the Chantry, I thought?"

"Ah, so it is. But you don't need a physical brand to make a mage tranquil. This is a mark of their power, their show of ownership of the mages, nothing more." Her eyes flash with annoyance. "Now, sleep," she whispers, and Jalyn's form crumples to the ground before fading from view.

"What did you do?" Melina asks, voice raising higher as her eyes dart around, wildly searching for her friend.

Izanami grins, a small chuckle bubbling forth from her lips. "It is time for your friend to rest. I have returned a layer of her emotions to her, and if she sleeps for a time, it will be easier for her. Emotions come in layers, with different levels of intensity. There are softer emotions, such as indignation, pity, and amusement. Then stronger emotions, such as anger, love, hate, and shame. If returned all at once, they are suffocating to feel after being nothing for so long. I have given her back her amusement for now."

Melina chews her lip in thought, turning the demon's words over in her mind. "How will I explain this to the others? To Jowan and Morrigan and the templars, especially?"

"You need not worry, mortal," Izanami replies with a sigh. "When we meet the templars in the mortal realm, I will retreat within this shell. Wynne will seem more quiet than normal, but they will be none the wiser unless they are looking for it. As for your companions, I am now a wise, elder mage, am I not? I will explain that Jalyn's time in the Fade has cracked the magic that holds her tranquility. If you agree with my words, they will accept it and not think on it overmuch."

Melina nods reluctantly, a harsh weariness settling at the base of her spine. 

~*~*~

Melina watches Daveth from a distance. A sly grin curls his lips, eyes flashing with glee. His finger slips inside a woman's pocket, grabbing a trinket as he melts into the shadows. He races away, evading the guards who chase after him with raised voices.

She follows him, Izanami at her side, as he slips over a pair of tall gates. "Where are we supposed to be now?" she asks.

"A place he calls Denerim," Izanami replies. "Can you guess the demon haunting him?"

She shakes her head, continuing to watch as he speeds through back alleyways. Beggars hold out their hands, pleading with dirt covered faces, but he ignores their plight. Instead, he escapes to a tiny hovel. He walks over to a slender woman with bright blonde hair and soft blue eyes, an easy grin on his face.

She smiles, and Melina can feel the malice in it. "Daveth, my love, well done," she says, pressing her lips against his in a kiss that makes Melina blush. "W'at 'ave ya brought fer our leader today?" 

Daveth grins, trailing his hands across her body and dangling the jeweled trinket in front of her face. "Think this will grant us some favour, pet?" he asks, chuckling as her eyes gleam. 

The demon girl giggles, a high-pitched sound that hurts Melina's ears. "Perfect," she squeals. "Now, we can get closer to the lout..."

"And slit his throat when he's least expectin' it," Daveth finishes, kissing the side of her neck. "Then, all his coin will be ours, Kalie, my pet."

Melina's eyes widen, jaw slack as she listens to recounting of the old memory. "Maker's breath, he was a thief and a murderer?"

Izanami shrugs, staring at her fingernails with a look of annoyance etched on her wrinkled face. "He was a thief, but remember, mortal, a demon is twisting the memory," she replies.

"Daveth," Melina calls out, stepping forward. "Stay away from that creature, it isn't who it appears to be," she warns.

"Foolish," Izanami mutters.

Daveth turns to her, face scrunched. "What's this then?"

The demon purrs, tracing a finger along his skin. "Who's yer friend, lover?"

He shrugs, licking his lips. "Dunno. Never seen her before, but she's cute, eh?" 

It pouts, turning Daveth's head back to look into its eyes. "We don't 'ave time fer games, Daveth. Don't ya want all that coin Tadeo has hidden away?"

Izanami chuckles, the sound slithering through the air. "Can you guess the name of the demon yet, child?'

Melina frowns, a deep crease forming between her brows. The Faith spirit flickers inside her, agitated. It whispers strange words she doesn't understand. "Quiet, I can't think," she mumbles, and the spirit quiets down to a low hum. She stares at the demon, regarding it carefully as it plays with the trinket. "Lust?" she guesses, looking to Izanami for confirmation.

"Close," she replies, voice a soft purr. "Try again, mortal. There are many forms of demons and spirits, layers within layers of complex emotions and thoughts, each one breaking down into a deeper subset of the other."

Melina nods, chewing her lip again. "What's like lust?" She wonders the question aloud, more of a thought than a question she expects an answer to.

"Mmmm. When a dragon hoards its treasures in a pile, viciously attacking any who dare try to take its precious trinkets, what word would you use to describe its behavior?"

Her eyes light with understanding. "Greed. It's a demon of Greed."

The demon's head snaps up, lips twisting into an ugly snarl. "How dare you speak that name," it says with a low growl.

It lunges toward her, fingers turning quickly into sharp, green claws. Its body elongates, towering above them. Bright emerald scales replace the pale flesh, glinting in the faded light of the hovel. Its eyes narrow into slits, glowing chartreuse orbs that hold so much rancor it makes Melina shiver. Its claws rake across her chest, a fiery pain that burns so bad it drops her to her knees.

Izanami clucks her tongue. "Now, now, we can't have that, now can we?" She raises her arms, sending a solid wall of wind toward the Greed demon at such a velocity that the creature falls back, landing on its tail.

Greed howls in pain, slithering along the ground with olive green slime dripping from its blackened fangs. "You cannot have him," it growls, mouth opening wide as it goes to clamp down on Melina's leg.

She kicks out, foot landing solidly on the demon's snout. She grabs her staff and wacks it over the head, jaw clenched. "No!" Melina's tone is harsher than its ever been as she sends out an arcane bolt through the palm of her hand toward the beast. "No more demons can have my friends, I won't allow it," she says, grabbing hold of its slimy body. She shoots out flames through her hands, burning her own flesh along with the demon.

It howls in pain as she sears away the scales, agony flooding her body as the smell of her own burning flesh clogs her nostrils. Izanami clucks her tongue as the beast finally dies. "That was foolish, mortal," she replies, but a hint of admiration colours her scolding words.

Melina pants, sweat pouring down her body as she struggles to heal her hands. 

Daveth stands above her, blinking rapidly. "Someone wanna tell me what just happened?" he asks, frowning.

Melina opens her mouth to reply but his form fades away, leaving only her and Izanami. She sighs, frustrated. "Why?" she asks, looking up Izanami, hands slowly healing as she speaks.

"They get in the way of my teaching," she replies simply. "Come, you have two more friends to free."

Izanami's hand is cold in hers as they manifest into the next realm. They're inside a small but well kept hovel. She can see Maroth dancing with a small child, his face shining with laughter. A beautiful elven woman stands over a small cook stove. 

"Husband, don't get her too riled up before supper, hmm?"

Maroth winks at the little girl. "'Course not, love. Jus' usin' up all that energy, yeah?"

The little girl giggles and throws herself into Maroth's arms. "I love you, papa!"

He swoops her up and spins her around. "Ah, my little ducklin', I love ya so much."

"How much?"

He laughs and spreads as arms as wide as they'll go. "This much," he replies.

Melina hesitates a moment. She doesn't want to break this dream, even though she knows it's not real. "Maroth?"

The woman turns, eyes narrowed. "Who is this, husband? You promised me you'd given up your dishonest ways!"

Maroth frowns at Melina. "Don't worry, love. I did." He sighs. "Go away, Melina."

She blinks, glancing over at Izanami. "You remember me?"

"Course I bloody do," he says. "Ain't daft, now am I?"

"We have to go," Melina whispers.

The little girl grabs the end of his tunic. "Papa? You're not leaving, are you? A papa duck can't go without his duckling."

She can see tears in his eyes as he runs his fingers through his hair. "No, Lala, papa ain't leavin' ya."

"That's not your daughter," Melina says, taking a step forward. "It's a demon."

Maroth glares at her again. "Do ya think I ain't know that? Don't care." He looks over at the woman. "It's ta only way I can see 'em again." He turns away from her, going over to the creature posing as his wife. He kisses her softly on the cheek, burying his face in her hair.

Her heart breaks at the desperate tone in his voice. She doesn't want to hurt him but she has no choice. They can't stay here. It isn't safe and she can't lose anymore people to demons. 

She glances at Izanami. "What do I do?" 

Izanami frowns. "Identify it," she replies, refusing to look at Maroth.

"It doesn't feel like a demon," Melina says. 

"Not all who live here are demons. Sloth was not always corrupted, and neither were the Spirits who lived here. Most of them were corrupted by you mortals. This one seems to be healing, thanks to your friend."

None of what the demon says makes any sense to Melina. "Are you saying this is a spirit, not a demon?"

Izanami raises an eyebrow at her, lips pursed. "You are a slow witted one," she mutters. "But yes."

Melina watches as Maroth picks up his daughter and holds her close as he dances with his wife, a small contented smile on his face. "Demon, are there spirits of Love?" she asks, glancing at Izanami again.

"I am a Spirit of Choice, mortal, and I do wish you would stop calling me a demon. It wounds me." She sighs, a small smile twisting her lips. "To answer your question, yes. They are rare but they do exist. They are nearly as powerful as Spirits of Hope and Faith. Have you figured out how to rescue your love struck friend here?"

She wonders, briefly, if it's really rescuing him to take him away from all this. "Yes, I think I have." She takes a deep breath and aims her staff at the Spirit of Love impersonating his daughter. She sends a bolt of energy at it and it screams in pain.

"W'at do ya think yer doin', shem?" Maroth growls glaring at her. 

She strikes again and the little spirit crumples to the ground, still screaming. Maroth's eyes grow wide as he grabs the spirit. He whispers something but Melina refuses to hear it. She shoots more energy at it, over and over again.

"Please, shem, don't do it. I don't want ta go back. I want ta stay here, with my family. Please." Maroth's tone is filled with desperation. "Please, stop, why are ya doin' this ta me? I don't want ta go back. Please, shem, please."

He's kneeling in front of her, gripping her robes in his fists. "Please," he begs, tears rolling down his face. "Yer killing them."

She closes her eyes as she shoots a final bolt of energy at the spirit. "I know. I'm sorry."

Maroth fades from view as the spirit dies, tears still wet on his cheeks. "I don't want ta wake up," he says before disappearing completely.

Melina looks at her hands. "I'm a monster," she whispers. "That spirit was innocent and I murdered it."

Izanami lays a hand on her shoulder. "You did what you had to do," she says, and her tone is no longer full of arrogance or disdain. Instead, it sounds gentle, just like Wynne.

~*~*~

Alistair's nightmare is the one that surprises her the least. She arrives at the great stone fortress, body sapped of energy, and walks the long walk toward the doors. A blinding heat burns against the back her neck. She wonders where she is, and the Faith spirit supplies the name for her as a whisper in her mind. _Weisshaupt_. 

The journey is long and by the end of it, her legs ache. Men and women dressed in the familiar silver and blue Grey Warden armour stand at the gate, weapons held in their hands. She curtsies, playing into the fantasy. "I am here to see Grey Warden Alistair, please," she asks, keeping her tone soft and polite.

They exchange glances before nodding, doors swinging open on their own. "You may enter, but do not disturb the wards," they warn in simultaneous monotone.

Melina bites her lip, nodding, and enters the darkly lit fortress. The heels of her boots click against the stone floor, candles flickering eerily as she goes. "Maker, this is the Grey Warden fortress? It's utterly terrifying. It's so cold and empty, is this how it truly looks?"

Izanami doesn't answer, just glides along next to her. A thick wave of desperation blankets over the room. The anguish weighs her body down, pulling her thoughts in a negative spiral. _Give up. You've already failed. Just lie down on the ground and waste away. You're nothing, weak and incapable. Give up now and admit your defeat._

A hand connects with the back of her head, a sharp slap that sends a shock through her. "Stop that, fool. Despair lives here, and its wickedness grows deep," Izanami says, tone full of disgust. "Slimy little rodents," she mutters.

Melina glances at her, thoughts still heavy. "You speak as if you hate them. Are they not your brethren?"

Izanami curls her lip, eyes narrowed. "You have much to learn, mortal. Not all demons are alike, nor do we all claim kinship. Despair is a rotting thing, driving mortals to suicide and wretchedness. There is no gain to that, only loss."

She frowns, shaking her head. "So now you admit you're a demon?"

"Ha! Clever child. I am something more and something less. I offer choice, and choice can be interpreted in many ways."

"I suppose that makes sense," Melina admits. "But couldn't you offer your help without stipulation?"

Izanami snorts, a derisive sound. "Do I appear to be a spirit of Compassion to you? I do not exist to help, and I cannot do what is against my nature least _I_ be corrupted. Choice is not kind, nor is it easy. Choice is hard, but if you waver too long, you lose the opportunity to do anything at all. Any choice is better than no choice at all, is it not?"

Melina mulls over the words, not responding, but pondering whether her words sound like wisdom, or an excuse. She lets out a sudden gasp when she sees Alistair, huddled in a corner with tears streaming down his face. A broken corpse lies in front of him, a man with dark skin and a short beard, brown hair pulled into a ponytail. Blood coats his body, a dark red against the deep tone of his skin.

"Duncan, I failed you. I'm so sorry. I should have been there with you. It should be you fighting the Blight, not me. Oh Maker, I'm so sorry," Alistair whispers, sobs making his body shake.

Melina rushes over to him, his pain reaching out to her and making her heart clench in sympathy. "Alistair, can you hear me?" She asks, kneeling down next to him.

He looks up at her, tear stained cheeks glistening. "It's hopeless, you know," he replies. "We'll never defeat the Blight on our own. Duncan was our leader. Without him, we'll never succeed in defeating the archdemon."

She cups his face, brows puckered. "That isn't true," she whispers, wiping away his tears with the pad of her thumb. "You can't lose faith, not now. You're strong and brave. I believe in you."

He sniffs, shaking his head. "I'm nothing compared to Duncan," he says morosely.

Izanami steps forward, rolling her eyes. "Despair cannot stand against Faith," she says, whispering in Melina's ear. "Hope is its purer, uncorrupted form, and Hope is fueled by Faith."

Melina draws up her mana, calling upon the Faith spirit. She coaxes its warmth to spread, encasing herself and Alistair in a single golden hue. "You live, Alistair. The Maker has a plan for you, or else you wouldn't be here. You must be strong, and believe in Him. Please, don't give up. We need you. _I_ need you. I beg of you, don't give in to Despair."

Alistair looks at her with wide eyes, as if this is the first time he is truly seeing her. "Maker forgive me, Mels. I have disappointed you," he says, placing his hand atop hers. "Please, can you forgive me?"

She smiles, leaning her forehead against his with a sigh of relief. "There is nothing to forgive, dear Alistair. I didn't know this Duncan, but your grief is strong... It makes sense this is the thought Despair preys upon."

He chuckles, his breath tickling her cheek. "You are sent by the Maker Himself, surely, Mi'lady."

"I am no noble," she replies, still holding his face in her hand.

Alistair closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before replying. "You seem awfully noble to me, Mels, high station or not."

Her cheeks turn bright red at his words. She opens her mouth to reply when his body slips from her grasp, fading from view. She looks up at Izanami, who smirks down at her.

"How very sweet," she quips dryly. "I do not believe I have ever seen Despair defeated by mere words before, but perhaps there is more to you than I once believed. Come now, Sloth awaits us." 

"What about Morrigan?"

Izanami frowns. "You need not worry about that one. She escaped on her own and is with Sloth now. Foolish girl is trying to defeat it alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit longer than the others, I'm sorry. I tried to trim it down as much as I could. Hopefully it flowed well and you liked it.


	18. Chapter 18

A strange haze fills Jalyn's mind. Is this the Fade? She remembers this place. But she isn't supposed to be here. Not now. Not like this. What had she been doing? The Litany.... That's right, she wanted to find the Litany of Adralla for Wynne and Leorah. They could use it to fight the blood mages. But then there was a demon and she had felt so tired...

Melina. She had seen Melina here. Was it part of the illusion? She doesn't understand. Everything feels off. Her mind is quieter than it had been since the uprising started. She should not feel calm in this place. She had never felt calm in the Fade, not even during her Harrowing. She can still remember it, fresh as ever.

_The walls twist and buckle, breaking down around her, crumbling and distorting. A high-pitched keening vibrates against her eardrums and her heart pounds in response. Fear makes sweat trickle down the back of her neck. Why was this happening? It’s too soon for her Harrowing. It wasn't supposed to happen for another year. _   
  
_Today she turns seventeen. The Knight-commander said Irving insists that she's ready. Jalyn shivers as she takes in the shifting form of the Fade. She can hear distant echoing whispers that blow like a hot wind across her skin._   
  
_"Child of Shartan…" a voice growls, and the sound hisses its way into her ear._   
  
_"Who're ya? Go away, I'm not 'fraid of ya! " she cries out, eyes darting around wildly._   
  
_The voice laughs and she shivers. Smoke crawls across the ground and wraps itself around her ankles. It twists up her legs, around her waist, and through her hair. She screams, trying to bat it away but her hands just swipe uselessly through the smoky tendrils._   
  
_"Shit! What're ya? Some kind of demon? " She backs up and the smoke leaves her, wafting over to hover, formless, in front of her. It hurts to focus on its ever-changing shape; the swirling colours of gray and black vapor is too confusing. Like liquid melting into smoke, never solid, never quite real._   
  
_She looks away and blinks back tears from her eyes as the smell burns at her nostrils. Rancid and sweet, it stings and cloys at her senses, until her thoughts begin blurring together, consumed by the demon creature before her._   
  
_"No!" she shouts, clutching at her hair, tugging until it hurts. She focuses all her energy in on herself, pulling up a barrier around her mind, and closing her eyes._   
  
_" Andraste guide me, Andraste protect me, I am free of sin. Andraste, lend me aide, for I walk in the Maker's light… "she whispers the prayer out of memory, but only part of her heart draws faith from it._   
  
_She feels a prickly-soft sensation against her bare feet and opens her eyes, risking a glance down. Her eyes widen as she takes in the bright green grass and the smell of what she remembers as fresh flowers. Birds chirp and she looks up at the sky. It's bright blue and ripples with grays and purples and even shades of pink. Was this supposed to be a sunset? She stares, mouth slightly agape._   
  
_She takes a hesitant step forward but startles when she hears a soft laughing sound._   
  
_She whips her head around, only to see nothing there. "Melina? Jowan? Is that you? " she calls out, confusion clouding her brain._   
  
_Another laugh, sounding like the tinkling of bells, and Jalyn spins, searching wildly for the source. "This isn't funny, you whatever-ya-are! Don't fool around, yeah? "she says, and her voice wavers slightly. Where is she again? She had been doing… something. But what?_   
  
_"Follow meeee, child of Ssshartan," a voice whispers, and it glides against her skin like silk._   
  
_She takes a hesitant step forward before another voice whispers. "Don't follow it! It wants… to hurt, to rip. Don't… watch out! " it cries, the cadence high-pitched but soothing._   
  
_She turns, slowly, and blinks in the direction she thinks the second voice had come from. "What? Who're ya, now? " she asks, and her voice is heavy with lethargy._   
  
_A loud growling sound echoing behind her causes her to jump, eyes blinking rapidly. "Quick, follow me!" the second voice cries, sounding frantic._   
  
_She freezes, fear keeping her inert. She closes her eyes, drawing up her will, using it to clear the fog from her mind. In this brief moment of clarity, a thought rings out: it's a trick. And then it’s gone and she can't think again, heavy and weighted by fear and indecision._   
  
_"I can guide you to safety…"_   
  
_It's a **trick**._   
  
_"Come, hurry…"_   
  
_It's a trick._   
  
_She turns away from both voices and stares blankly toward a single line of trees in the distance._   
  
_"No, a wicked demon waits for you there…"_   
  
_It's. A. Trick._   
  
_She steps forward as a blinding pain in her forehead almost takes her to her knees. She bites her inner cheek, letting the warm, metallic blood fill her mouth. Focusing on the pain, she takes another step forward, and then another and another until the pain in her head lessens; her vision clearing slowly._   
  
_The trees come rushing toward her, as if the land itself had gained will through her and moved them closer._   
  
_"Well done…" a voice whispers in her ear._

Never had she imagined the Harrowing would be like that. The Fade never felt right to her. Like there was something missing. Only Melina found it comforting. To Jalyn, it was a dangerous place that wasn't supposed to be there.

And now she's back. She looks down at her hands as a new area forms around her. How strange to be here. Tranquils aren't supposed to be here. Oh, this would make the templars so angry to learn their methods aren't foolproof. She feels laughter bubble up from inside her. A tiny giggle escapes her lips. 

"Jalyn!" 

Melina crashes into her, holding her in a hug so tight that it feels crushing.

"You have returned. Or I have." Jalyn pauses for a moment. "Where are we?"

Melina glances over at Wynne. "We're in the Fade. There's a sloth demo- Morrigan! Oh thank the Maker, I'm so glad to see you."

Morrigan? Jalyn turns around and sees a tall, slim human girl. Her dark brown hair is piled atop her head. Her golden eyes seem to glow in the eerie presence of the Fade. Her clothes are tattered and covered in feathers. An apostate? Melina is glad to see.... an apostate? 

Morrigan raises an eyebrow. "'Tis most strange. A demon poorly tried to impersonate my mother and once I killed it, I came here. This Must be the place where this Sloth dwells. No matter, we shall defeat it. It will regret toying with my mind." 

"What do we have here? A rebellious minion? An escaped slave?" The Sloth demon slinks toward them, laughing madly. "My my, but you do have some gall. But playtime is over. You all have to go back now."

Wynne holds her staff up. "If we all attack at once, the demon won't stand a chance."

"Wait!" Melina steps closer to the demon. "Sloth? You.... You don't want to do this, do you? This isn't you, not really."

The demon glares at her, swiping it's clawed hand across her face. "Foolish mortal. You should sleep. Everything would be so much easier if you all just slept."

Melina blinks back tears as Jalyn watches. It's strange to her, to see Melina so boldly approach a demon. She had always been timid and shy, hovering behind Jalyn to protect her.

"I remember you," Melina whispers. "The one who invented it doesn't want it. The one who bought it doesn't need it. The one who needs it doesn't know it. What is it?"

The demon growls again. "What is this nonsense you speak, mortal?"

Wynne scoffs. "Foolish. You can't defeat a demon with riddles, child," she admonishes. "We must attack it."

Morrigan shifts into a large bird. "Let us not waste anymore time. Tis time to fight, not coddle the creature."

"No!" Melina says. "The one who invented it doesn't want it. The one who bought it doesn't need it. The one who needs it doesn't know it. What is it?"

Sloth hesitates. "It is... a coffin," it replies, eyes narrowed. "Why are you doing this? Do you not want... to rest?"

Melina shakes her head as she takes another step toward the demon. "I know you don't want to hurt us. You just want to help, don't you? Let's play a game- if you can guess my riddles, I will rest, just like you want. But if you can't, you have to listen to me, okay?"

Jalyn furrows her brow. Is she making a deal, with a demon? This must be a trick. Melina would never do such a thing. She only dealt with spirits of compassion and faith and healing. Not monstrous demons. What trick is this?

Sloth laughs. "Foolish mortal. Yes, I will play your game and soon you will all rest."

Wynne hits her on the back of the head. "What are you doing?" she hisses.

Melina glares at her a moment before turning her back on her. This must be a trick of the Fade. Melina would never turn her back on her mentor. 

Jalyn watches as Melina takes a deep breath. "If eleven plus two equals one, what does nine plus five equal?"

Sloth growls. "What sort of trick question is this? Fourteen."

Melina smiles. "The answer is two."

Laughter echoes behind them and Jalyn turns to look at Morrigan, who has shifted back into human form. "Oh t'was clever indeed, Amell. Perhaps I was wrong about you."

Wynne frowns. "What? I do not understand."

Melina smiles softly. "It's time. Eleven o'clock plus two hours equals one o'clock. Nine o'clock plus five hours equals 2 o'clock. I thought time would trick a creature of the Fade. Time doesn't run the same here."

Sloth growls again, a deep sound that echos across the Fade. "You tricked me, mortal!"

"I did," Melina admits. "And now you must listen."

Jalyn frowns. Listen? Why did she not bargain for their freedom? Nothing makes any sense. She wants out. Being trapped in the Fade feels twice as wrong now that she's tranquil and she doesn't know these people, not anymore. This is not the Melina she remembers. 

"Why did you enter the mortal realm? I saw you there, all twisted and broken and angry. But you don't like it there. You like the Fade and your games. Why did you come?" Melina asks.

"I did not _want_ to come! Your mages tore me from my home and forced me to do their bidding! But they were too weak to hold me, mortal. I am Sloth!"

His body grows larger and Melina shrinks back a moment. 

"You will not hold us, demon. We found each other in this place and you cannot stand against us," Wynne says, shooting a spell at the demon.

Melina spins around, eyes wide. "I said don't attack!"

Jalyn steps closer to the demon, tilting her head slightly. Sloth roars, leaping toward her and digging it's claws into her chest. She screams, pain like fire running through her. 

Talons grab her arm, lifting her up and away from the demon. She looks up at the large bird carrying her. "Are you Morrigan?" she says, tears still fresh on her hollow cheeks.

The bird lets out a soft, strange noise before answering. "Did you think a real bird came into the Fade and whisked you away?"

Jalyn blinks as they land. "I suppose not."

Her eyes search automatically for Melina as Morrigan shifts into human form once more. Ah, there she is. She's holding a barrier around Sloth, sweat pouring down her face.

"Please, Ser Sloth. I don't want to kill you," she says. "You don't have to be this way. Let me heal you." 

A soft glow surrounds Melina, glowing brighter and brighter. Jalyn watches as her friend pushes that glowing energy toward the demon. It surrounds him, glowing brighter and brighter until it starts to absorb into Sloth's twisted body. 

"Don't you remember what you were like before? Please, don't fight." She pushes more energy toward the demon. "Now her hand is raised, a sword to pierce the sun. With iron shield she defends the faithful; let chaos be undone."

Jalyn watches as the demon seems to shrink, shifting into a smaller bear-like form with spikes protruding from it's body. Melina falls to her knees. "Oh thank the Maker," she whispers, reaching out a hand to stroke the demon on its snout. "Rest now, dear Sloth. I'm sorry for all the pain you endured."

The demon whimpers slightly. "You... helped me. Now... I must... Go..."

Wynne rests a hand on Melina's shoulder. "You are full of surprises, aren't you child? Now, we wake."

Jalyn can feel the Fade falling away. It reminds her of when she left her Harrowing, the feeling of falling down down down.... 

~*~*~

"Jalyn? Jalyn, wake up, please."

A voice? Who's voice? Where is she now? Slowly, she opens her eyes and sees Melina's worried face. "I am awake," she replies, voice bland.

Melina frowns, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She strokes a hand down Jalyn's cheek, soft and tender. "How do you feel?"

"I am fine. The demons have quieted." 

"Uh, right, well, we got one more floor to go, yeah? Let's get on with it then."

Jalyn looks around Melina to see a tall man with short, dark hair wearing blue and silver armor. A griffin is emblazoned on the front. An elf is standing next to him, his long blonde hair and dark skin strangely familiar to her. His face is pinched in an angry scowl as he walks over to Melina and grabs her arm. 

"I told ya ta leave me alone," he says with a growl. "Why did ya do that?"

Melina's eyes are wide as she stares at him. "I- I couldn't leave you like that, Ser-"

"DON'T CALL ME SER," he bellows, spittle flying from his mouth. "You bit-"

A gloved hand comes in contact with his jaw. Anther man in grey and silver armour stands towering over him, face dark with anger. He has short, messy blonde hair and golden brown eyes. "If you ever lay a hand on Mels like that again, Tabris, I- I- I'll run you through with a sword," he says, voice in a low growl.

A large dog growls at the elf, teeth bared in an ugly snarl. Melina grabs him by the collar and pulls him away.

"Alistair," Melina says, voice soft.

"Oh so the little templar has a spine after all," Morrigan says, one eyebrow raised.

Alistair glares at her. "Shut up, witch."

What a strange group of people. It seems unnatural that Melina is travelling with them. It would figure, of course, that she has become close with a templar. It's the only thing in the chaos that makes sense.

The dark haired man clears his throat. "Right, well, glad we're all awake now. Let's try not to kill each other before the demons do," he says, voice dry. He looks at Jalyn. "Uh, nice meetin' you and all but we've got to go."

Melina shakes her head. "She has to come with us. She's in danger alone."

Wynne nods her head in agreement. "Besides, there's something I want to observe and I need her nearby to do it. I have a theory, if the Wardens will indulge this old woman for awhile. Melina and I will will ensure the tranquil doesn't get in the way."

The tranquil? Wynne has never referred to her that way. Surana. She always called her Surana or "child", like she did all the younger mages. She must be feeling more tired than she's letting on. As they walk toward the door that will take them to the top of the tower, Melina links her arm with hers. She points out the people she's been travelling with; the Grey Wardens Alistair and Daveth, the apostate Morrigan from the Korcari Wilds, her mabari war hound that she's named Ser Beasty, and the elf from Denerim, Maroth Tabris.

"I know you, Maroth Tabris."

He turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised. "Whatsit?"

"I know you. From the alienage."

Maroth looks at her a little more closely. "Oiy, ya must be that Surana kid. From the orphanage, yeah? Think I remember ya. Guess ya made it alright." His eyes shift upward to her brand. "Er, whatsit on yer head?"

"I am tranquil now," she replies. "This marks me as property of the Chantry."

"Eh? Tranquil? Property? W'at the frig is this shite?"

Melina shakes her head. "Don't say it like that. You're not property. The Chantry just wants to watch over you, to keep you safe. The Tranquil can't defend themselves."

Morrigan scoffs. "And who made them incapable of looking after themselves, hmm? T'was the Chantry, no?"

"I-"

"Do not feel sad for me, Melina Amell. I feel nothing."

The rest of the walk is in silence, save for the sounds of occasional battle. Jalyn stands back, out of the way, and observes. She keeps a particular eye on Melina. Melina was gentle, a healer. But now she battles demons and blood mages. She seems more confident than Jalyn remembers. Her glyphs are stronger. She stands closest to Alistair and the dog, far away from Wynne. Jalyn wonders what happened to cause a rift between those two. Melina had always looked up to the old woman, ever since they were both kids. Wynne seems different than she remembers, as well. Not once does she try to heal anyone, no matter their injury. Instead, it's Melina who heals until her mana is nearly spent, face pallid and weary. 

Now they only have one room left. The room leading to the stairwell. 

"Maker, Cullen!" Melina rushes toward a magical cage where Cullen sits inside, clothes tattered and blood soaked. 

"This trick again? I know what you are. It won't work. I will stay strong. I will not break," Cullen says with a growl, snapping his head up to stare at them. "Begone, demon."

Melina steps forward, tears in her eyes. "Cullen, don't you recognize me?"

He growls, rushing to his feet and slamming his fists against the barrier. "Recognize you? Of course I know who you pretend to be, demon. You taunt me with the thing I've always desired, my ill-advised infatuation. A stolen kiss I never should have had, feelings that are now dead from endless torture. Kill me now, and be done with it! I will not break, no matter how long you tempt me with her beauty."

Melina's cheeks turn bright red, and Maroth raises a brow. "Ah, so ya yer not as innocent as ya pretend," he murmurs, causing her blush to deepen.

"Not now, you twit," Daveth says, shaking his head.

Melina ignores them both, stepping forward towards Cullen. She places a hand against the barrier and then lets out a surprised yelp. "Maker, that hurt," she whispers.

Cullen frowns, giving a small shake of his head. "What? But that always works, you press against the barrier and slip through, tempting me with your breath against my skin and false promises in my ear. You- You can't be real," he says, voice low.

Alistair joins Melina's side, pressing a hand against her back. "We are real, Ser Knight. We've come to rescue you, and the others trapped here."

The templar's eyes narrow, teeth barred in a snarl. "Rescue the others? You mean the mages? They can't be helped. You need to kill them all, purge this place from their madness. There's no way of telling how many have turned, how many are abominations, hiding in plain sight."

"You can't mean that, Cullen," Melina whispers. "You said you wanted to protect the mages. You promised you'd always protect me, remember?"

"I was wrong. My duty is to protect the rest of Thedas from your wickedness," he replies, voice cold.

Jalyn can see Melina's legs shaking as she swallows back her tears. "Do you think I'm wicked, Cullen?"

He nods, blood dripping from his lip. "All mages are corrupt. I never should have told you otherwise."

Wynne tucks a strand of her grey hair behind one ear. "You shouldn't say such cruel things to her," she says, the corners of her lips tucked down in a frown.

Melina shakes her head, looking down at her feet. "It doesn't matter. He's right."

Jalyn walks closer to the barrier until Cullen turns his gaze to her. "I should thank you, for trying to save me earlier," she says.

Cullen's expressions softens, but only slightly. "The tranquil are the only ones we can spare," he replies. "A tranquil cannot be possessed like the mages."

Wynne lets out an uncharacteristic snort but says nothing. 

Cullen frowns, glancing at Jalyn's brand. "Perhaps it would be wisest to turn them all tranquil. It is the only way."

"Hey, templar, I don't know who ya are," Daveth says, frowning. "But we're not turning anybody tranquil today. 'Specially not Melina."

"Daveth, it's alright. Cullen... Cullen is just hurting right now. He doesn't mean it," Melina replies.

Cullen curls his lip. "You have no idea what I mean, mage," he says. "Don't pretend at innocence. Your kind are all the same."

Alistair places his hand atop her head, ruffling her thick white-blonde curls. "Come on, Mels. We have to go. Once we defeat Uldred and the other blood mages, we can free this... Cullen and hopefully find your First Enchanter. It's going to be alright, you'll see. You're not alone."

Melina nods silently before turning to Jalyn. "You should stay here, with Cullen. It won't be safe for you up there. Ser Beasty will stay with you and protect you." She presses a soft kiss against Jalyn's cheek. "I love you, my friend."


	19. Chapter 19

Anger and grief still burn through Maroth as they climb the stairs to where the last of the blood mages wait. He can smell the sweet lilac scent his wife had always worn, even now. It had felt so real. Her hands, her lips... They had felt so real. He knew it was a lie, but it was a beautiful lie. One he didn't want to wake up from.

He can still see Melina standing there, shooting spells at his daughter. And even though he knows it wasn't really his Lala, it had looked just like her, sounded just like her when it screamed in pain. A beautiful dream turned into another nightmare. He'd give his life to be with them again. He was never there when they were alive and now... Now he'll never have another chance to tell his wife he loves her or play games with his daughter. 

Lightening crackles in the small chamber like room, sizzling through the air. It bites along his skin as mages float a few feet above the ground, their hands bound tight above their heads. 

"Finn!" Melina cries. 

A bald man grabs an elven mage by the chin. "Do you accept the gift that I offer?"

Melina grabs a tattered scroll from her pocket. "Maker, have mercy on us. Andraste, have mercy on us. Maker, have mercy on us. Andraste hear us. Andraste, graciously hear us." As she speaks the words, a glowing barrier forms around the mage she had called Finn, pushing the bald man back. 

Alistair glances at her. "What is that?"

She smiles, but it's a grim sort of smile full of determination. "The Litany of Adralla. Jalyn found it. It protects against blood magic and demons." 

The bald man turns, a nasty sneer on his face. "Ah... Look what we have here. An intruder. I bid you welcome. Care to join in our revels?"

Melina takes a deep breath. "Senior Enchanter Uldred," she says, lower lip wobbling. "Why are you doing this?"

He looks down his hooked nose at her. "I'm quite surprised _you_ are still alive. Unfortunately, that must mean you've killed my servants."

"They're not your servants! They were people! Most of them were your students. How could you?" Tears stream down her cheeks and Maroth can tell she's in pain. Someone like her, all this killing and death can't be easy.

"Now, now, Amell. We needn't fixate on that. That doesn't help our relationship. I know you were Wynne's pupil but I have a lesson for you. A mage is a larval form of something greater. What you call abominations is actually our truest potential. The power we can wield by bonding with those who live in the Fade..."

"I-" A strange look Maroth can't place crosses Melina's face as she grips an Andrastian pendant she wears around her neck. 

Wynne steps up behind her. "Do not falter, child. He corrupted the spirit he bound. Anything he says is twisted, not quite right," she whispers, causing Melina to frown.

Uldred tilts his head. "What is this? Such interesting... choices you have made, Wynne," he says, a slow grin spreading across his face. "It doesn't matter. Look at these other fools. They deny themselves something glorious. You understand, don't you?"

Wynne grabs her staff, hands steady despite her age. "You're mad. There's nothing glorious about what you've _become_ , Uldred."

"Uldred is gone. I am Uldred and not Uldred. I am more than he was. I am more than they were. As one, we are something new. Wisdom combines to create something new, something beautiful. Behold."

Maroth watches in horror as the mage previously known as Uldred shifts into a new form, body stretching and turning purple. Strange ridges form across his skin, two misshapen horns forming on his skull as his eyes glow red. He towers above them, his chuckle sending shivers down Maroth's spine.

"You've got to be kiddin' me," Daveth whispers next to him, knocking an arrow. "Might as well be a blasted ogre."

Maroth chuckles as he stands in front of the archer, shaking his head ruefully. He's never seen an ogre before, but if they look anything like this, he's glad he hasn't had to face one.

Yet. Maker knows what travelling with a bunch of Grey Wardens will bring him, he figures. Mages scream out around them, bodies trapped in opalescent prisons. Wynne mutters something in a strange language under her breath, waving her staff toward the trapped mages. The barriers burst in a scattered spray of luminescence. Uldred, or whatever he is now, growls, slamming his fists on the ground.

"They belong to me," he shouts as Maroth and the rest of his companions go flying backward. 

His body smacks against the stone, head connecting with a sickening thud. Stars burst across his vision as he stares up at the circular ceiling. He wonders, for a moment, if this is how he's going to die. Trapped in a tower full of blood mages, demons, and abominations. At least he won't die alone, he figures, struggling to get to his feet. And he won't die without a fight either.

Maroth limps forward, pain shooting from his ankle and up his leg, eyes casting around the room, searching for Melina. Her brow is furrowed in deep concentration as she recites the litany, a glowing light surrounding her body. "Andraste most pure, pray for us. Andraste our Savior, pray for us. Andraste of mercy, pray for us."

Not wanting to distract her, he turns around and looks for the old biddy. He finds her, casting spells rapid fire toward the beast that once was Uldred. "I need some of yer healin'," he shouts across the battle field.

She frowns, but doesn't respond, and he wonders if she didn't hear him or if she's ignoring him. He turns to Morrigan who just smirks as she casts a spell that fills the air with a strange feeling of horror. "I am no healer," she says. 

Uldred-the-demon reaches down, grabbing Daveth in his large, grotesque hand. His arm reaches back as if he's about to slam the archer on the ground. Daveth's scream pierces the air, full of unadulterated terror. Maroth takes his spear and throws it toward the demon, grinning in satisfaction as it punctures its eye.

The demon growls, dropping Daveth and reaching for the spear. Morrigan casts a spell the slows the Warden's descent, but he still hits the ground with a terrible crash. Maroth winces in sympathy, but is relieved to see him get to his feet, limping away from the demon's reach.

Daveth grabs his bow from the ground and lets out a stream of colourful curses when he sees the broken bowstring. "Fuckin' shite, titless bastard fuckin' cockwomble piece of motherless cockstorm, this was my best friggin' bow!"

Maroth snorts, glad to see the man hasn't lost his sense of humour. He looks at his hands, realizing he, too, has lost his weapon. Again. "Frig," he mutters. He looks around, praying he finds a dagger or something, while Alistair and Wynne fight the beast alone.

"Mirror of justice, pray for us. Seat of wisdom, pray for us. Cause of our joy, pray for us. Spiritual vessel, pray for us." An abomination comes up behind Melina, piercing her through the chest with its clawed hand. Her eyes widen as she falls to her knees, blood trickling out of her mouth. "Maker, protect us," she whispers before collapsing. 

Morrigan scowls, moving her hands in a strange circular pattern that causes ice to form and hold the abomination in place.

He rushes over to her, despite the pain shooting up his leg. He slips in the blood as he grabs her staff. "Maroth, buddy, yer a friggin' nutter," he mutters to himself before charging the demon.

He wacks the demon in the knees, slamming the staff so hard that it splinters, cracking down the center. The demon lets out a menacing laugh that shakes the ground. "Shite," Maroth whispers as he watches the demon's hand reaching for him.

Daveth slams into him, knocking them both out of the way as they fall to the ground. "Are you insane?" he shouts, his breath blowing against Maroth's cheek.

"Ya don't need ta shout, I'm right friggin' here," Maroth retorts, rolling them over and away from the demon's foot as it stomps the ground again.

Daveth pushes against his chest, brown eyes filled with annoyance. "Well, next time don't try to hit a demon with a friggin' stick," he grumbles as Maroth stands up.

"Eh, ya probably have a point there," Maroth replies, helping Daveth to his feet. "W'at else was I goin' ta hit him with, though? My damn spear is in his eye."

Daveth hands him one of his daggers, a wry grin twisting his lips. "We need to buy you more weapons, my friend," he quips, before turning back to face the demon. "Fightin' an ogreish demon with one dagger? I can think of better ideas. Ah well, **for the Grey Wardens!** "

He rushes toward the beast, ducking under its hand, and stabs him in the ankle. Dark red blood pours from the wound and the demon stumbles as Alistair slams his shield into the same leg. Maroth looks around before slipping in between its legs, wincing from the sprain, stabbing at the other ankle.

The beast comes crashing down to its knees, making the ground vibrate. He holds back a laugh as he realizes he's stabbing the demon right in the arse, which is now at his level. He takes the dagger and yanks it across the demon's left arse cheek, laughter finally escaping his lips as it howls, falling forward and pounding its fists into the ground.

Daveth rolls his eyes as he runs around to the front of the demon, reaching for its throat with his short dagger. The demon snarls, swiping him out of the way. As Daveth flies through the air, landing against the far wall, Alistair sneaks forward and uses his longsword to stab the creature in the throat, tearing through the thick, bony flesh.

As it falls face first in a pile of its own blood, Maroth lets out a cheer. "Ha! Take that ya plug ugly arse!"

He limps over to Daveth, looking down at the shem. Daveth groans, wincing as he touches the back of his head. His hand comes away with bright red blood. 

Maroth shakes his head. "That's goin ta be a right shitty headache come the mornin'," he says.

"You're such an arse," Daveth grunts. "You goin' to help a friend to his feet, or just make bad jokes?"

He chuckles, reaching a hand down. "I can't do both?"

"Arse," Daveth mutters, grabbing his hand and smiling, despite the pain he must be feeling. Somehow, Maroth finds himself glad the man is alright. He's not sure if it's because they've fought together against a demon or because he had saved his life or if it's Daveth's stupid humor that's getting to him, but he's glad nobody died. 

"Melina? Mels, are you alright?"

Maroth turns as he hears Alistair's voice rising in concern. Maroth's heart speeds up, jumping into his throat, as the Warden touches the side of her neck.

Alistair frowns. "I can't find her pulse. Maker, please, she can't die now," he whispers as the other two draw near.

Wynne hobbles over, using her staff as a walking stick, face pale with exhaustion. "She's not dead, give her a moment to... heal herself," she says, brows knitted in concentration.

Maroth looks at her curiously. "Ain't ya one of them healers, too?" he asks.

"I... am, but I am also old and tired and I have no mana left to heal her with," she replies, looking away. "Think no more of it."

Maroth turns away, looking back at Melina. Suddenly, her lips part as she intakes a small breath of air. Her eyelids flutter open, the colour slowing returning to her cheeks.

"Thank the Maker, I thought you were dead," Alistair whispers vehemently. "You had me worried for a second there."

Melina sits up, frowning as she looks around the room. "I- You had to fight the battle without me." She bows her head, hands shaking in her lap. "I failed you."

Maroth grunts, using his sore ankle to poke her in the foot. "Eh, enough of that. We wouldn't have made it out of that blasted Fade shite if not fer ya, right? It's not like ya tried to get knocked out, an' Uldred's dead now. We're all a little worse fer wear, an' I think we all need some rest an' a hot friggin' meal."

Melina looks up at him, eyes wide. "You.... you're not angry with me anymore?"

Maroth grunts. "Oiy, didn't say that. Still glad ya ain't dead, though," he grumbles.

Alistair nods his agreement. "He's right, though. Come on, Mels, let's go make sure that Cullen fellow is all right."

"Wait, Irving!" Melina exclaims, getting to her feet with a frown. 

"I'm over here, child," a gravelly voice says.

Maroth turns around, eyebrows raised in amazement as he notices a very old mage surrounded by a few others, frightened expressions twisting the younger ones' faces. "Well, Andraste's arse, this lot survived, yeah?"

Alistair grins, looking over at them. "A demonic invasion thwarted, a tower full of mage allies safely rescued. We do good work," he adds.

"Mels? Is that really you?"

A wide grin splits across Melina's face. "Maker's breath, Finn! Yes, it's me. I am so glad to see you alive," she whispers fiercely. 

The mage called Finn shakes his head, a look of wonderment on his face. "I thought for sure you died at Ostagar. Never in all my life did I think you'd be the one to save us, yet here you are. I am glad to see you, Mels. You're a sight for sore eyes."

Irving grumbles, beard twitching. "One of you young lads will have to help this old man down the stairs. Cursed tower," he mumbles. He glances toward Wynne, nodding in her direction. "It's good to see you here, Wynne. I'm not surprised at all to see you were the one to rescue us."

Maroth snorts at the old man. "Yer old biddy didn't do that much," he mutters. 

Wynne scoffs at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Don't think I won't beat you with my cane, young man." She turns to Irving, smiling. "But he's right, Irving. I wasn't alone. Without the Grey Wardens and their friend, I wouldn't be standing here right now."

"Melina helped too," Daveth adds. "She rescued us in the Fade and read off that Liter of Adrula thing."

Melina flinches, waving her hands. "Oh no, I didn't really do anything good," she replies. 

"Don't sell yourself so short," Daveth says, walking over to Irving. "You needed an arm, old man?"

Irving frowns, but grabs a hold of Daveth's arms. Maroth shakes his head, following the two with a chuckle. 

  
~*~*~

The Knight Commander's face is full of shock when they enter the room surrounded by mages and that Irving fellow. "Maker's breath, I didn't think you'd succeed."

"A shem forgettin' ta think, ain't surprised," Maroth mutters.

Jalyn giggles at his comment and every single mage and templar turns to look at her, horror etched on their faces.

"Whatsit? What're ya lookin' at her like that fer?"

Cullen grabs his sword and points it at her throat. "She should not be laughing," he says, eyes narrowed.

Maroth grabs her arm, pulling her back. "Oiy, I'm hilarious, 'course she laughed. What, mages ain't allowed ta laugh?"

Melina steps in front of Cullen. "Please, it's not what you think," she whispers. 

Wynne glances at him. "Tranquil do not have emotions any longer, boy. It's been severed, along with their connection to the Fade."

The Knight Commander grabs his sword. "This.... Whatever this is... It's abnormal," he says. "I'm sorry, Amell. The only way I can protect you is by killing whatever Surana has become."

Melina's eyes widen as she throws herself on Jalyn, her arms wrapping tight around the elven girl's slim frame. "No, you can't! She's fine, it's not what you think! She's fine!"

Wynne clears her throat. "I believe the Rite of Tranquility is merely being affected by the girl's time in the Fade. It should go away with time, or perhaps the tranquility will break. I am unsure, but killing her seems unnecessary."

Cullen growls. "We do not take the advice of blood mages," he says.

Daveth sighs. "I'm going to regret this but... With the power granted to me as a Grey Warden, I'm recruiting the tranquil girl into our ranks. The templars can't touch her."

"Daveth," Melina says, tears filling her eyes. "Thank you. Oh Maker bless you, thank you."

"You're recruiting a tranquil into the ranks of the Wardens? Don't you have enough apostates running around with you?" The Knight-commander glares at them, eyes narrowed and voice laden with sarcasm.

Alistair shrugs. "Well, if we already have so many, what's one more, right?"

"Your glibness is not helping," Greagoir retorts.

Wynne steps forward, biting her lip before saying anything. "I will accompany the Grey Wardens, Greagoir, and make sure that they are doing the right thing and nothing is amiss."

Greagoir frowns, lips twisting down. "I do trust you, Wynne, but you are but one mage." He turns to Cullen, letting out a slow sigh. "You, Cullen. You will accompany them as well. Report back if anything... inappropriate happens."

Cullen snaps to attention, throwing a salute toward his commander. "Yes, Ser. I still say we should annul the circle; we can't be sure these mages aren't possessed, Ser."

"I trust in Irving's word, Cullen," is his weary reply. "That is enough."

Maroth takes a deep breath, looking between them. "Are ya sure this one is up ta it?" he asks, doubtful. "He seemed pretty... off his nutter, yeah? Back in that cage?"

Greagoir nods his head firmly. "He's a templar, and a strong one. He will be fine."

Melina stares down at her boots for a moment before taking a deep breath. "Ser Cullen is a good man, and a fine templar. We will do well to have him at our side," she whispers, meeting the templar's gaze.

Cullen frowns, eyes narrowed. "I will do my best to protect Ferelden from your magic," is his curt reply.

"Thank you," she says, curtsying low. 

Maroth exchanges a glance with Daveth, before rolling his eyes. "Oh this looks ta be loads of fun. We're jus' pilin' on the crazy now, ain't we? Right, bloody shite."


	20. Chapter 20

The campfire is warm against her skin but somehow Melina still feels cold. She can hear Wynne's voice echoing in her mind. So many lectures against resisting the alluring promises of demons just for her to fail so miserably now. The stars twinkle like tiny promises of hope in the night sky, bright and beautiful and free, but to Melina they look dim and diluted. Even the pea stew Alistair had made for supper had tasted bland tonight. She takes a deep breath and looks up at the moons. They seem to float in the dark inky blackness of the sky, hovering forever out of reach. Her arm stretches toward them, fingers splayed out as she covers one of the moons with her hand. Still, even covered, the light continues to shine.

"A silver for your thoughts?"

Melina startles at the sudden voice and looks up to see Alistair standing above her. She bites her lip before shaking her head. "I wasn't really thinking of anything," she lies. "I'm just enjoying the stars."

"Mind if I share your log?" he asks, cheeks red.

She smiles at him, glad for the company despite her mood. "Of course," she replies.

She looks out at their small group. She frowns when she notices someone missing. "Where's Daveth?"

Alistair crinkles his nose, lip curling. "He's with Morrigan," he says.

"Morrigan?" Melina tilts her head, frowning slightly. "But I thought she went to bed?"

"They both did," Alistair says, shivering. "Ugh."

They both did? Why would- Oh. Now she understands. "Oh, that's good though, isn't it? I think Morrigan needs a friend. It must have been so lonely, growing up in the Wilds. At least at Kinloch Hold, we always had each other."

"She's a complete and utter bitch, Mels. Don't let her fool you," Alistair warns, looking off into the distance toward Morrigan's tent.

Melina bites her lip before posing her next question. "Do... you have feelings for her, Alistair?"

Alistair turns toward her with a look that can only be described as pure horror. "What? Maker... What? Why would you ask that?" 

She twists the fabric of her tunic. "I- I just thought maybe you were jealous that Daveth had confessed, first," she whispers. She was always bad at this, at understanding how other people feel. She can tell when they're in pain, and she feels it so intensely that it's overwhelming, but anything else is a mystery.

Alistair shakes his head. "I am _not_ jealous," he replies with a snort. He glances at her a moment, cheeks turning red. "There, uh, is someone else I like," he continues.

Melina frowns a moment. Ah. He must mean Leliana. That would make sense. A templar and a chantry sister would be forbidden under normal circumstances but Alistair is a warden now and Leliana is no ordinary sister. "You should tell her how you feel," Melina replies, though for some reason her chest feels tight at the thought.

"I'm trying," Alistair mutters, shaking his head. "Do you, uh, have feelings for anyone?"

Feelings? Her? "I'm a mage," she replies, looking out across the camp.

She can see Cullen standing guard, back perfectly straight. A scowl covers his face. It looks strange to see him so angry. The Cullen she knew had always been gentle and sweet. This is not the Cullen she knows. This Cullen is full of anger and fear and bitterness; emotions she doesn't understand. What had they done to him, to make him this way?

"So? Mages aren't allowed to fall in love?" Alistair asks, brows knitted together.

Love. What a strange and simple word. If it hadn't been for love, Jalyn wouldn't have been made tranquil. If she hadn't loved Jowan, she would have been safe. Love in the circle towers is forbidden. Magic usually breeds more magic, after all.

"We have a responsibility," Melina replies. "Mage adults are more likely to have mage children. Two mage adults and the chances are even higher. Thedas doesn't need more magic in it."

Her thoughts drift back to Kinloch Hold. So much magic had caused so much death and pain. Even the spirits were hurt in all the chaos, and she hadn't even known that was possible. If there were no mages, that never would have happened. Everyone would still be safe. The spirits of healing and faith that had helped their healers wouldn't have been twisted into demons. Her friends would still be alive. Ad Wynne... Wynne would be herself.

Alistair takes a slow, deep breath. "Seems to me, everyone should be allowed to love."

They sit in silence after that. Melina occasionally glances toward the tent she shares with Jalyn. Her friend is sleeping peacefully, wrapped in Melina's scratchy wool blanket. She's been quiet so far, though they haven't traveled far from Kinloch Hold yet. It feels wrong that Jalyn should finally venture outside the tower and be so silent. Jalyn the rebel who had wanted mages to be free to taste the sunlight no matter the risk. Jalyn the fighter who never stayed quiet even when it was safer. She always talked back to the Knight Commander and senior enchanters. She never listened, never willingly obeyed unless it suited her mood. Jalyn had been full of fire and anger and spite at their life of solitude. 

And it was this that sometimes pushed them apart. Melina felt safe under the watchful eyes of their templar guardians. She had enjoyed spending quiet evenings in the library alone, reading old texts of history and magic and fables. It was a nice, safe life. It was more than she had deserved. Before coming to Kinloch Hold, she had done bad things. Her memory of that time is faded now, but she still remembers feeling guilt and sorrow over something. She deserved to be taken from her family. They would safer, if she wasn't around. Kinloch Hold was were she was meant to be. 

But Jalyn never understood that. Her magic had manifested so innocently. Melina still remembers the way Jalyn would laugh telling the story of the guard she accidentally levitated after stealing an apple from an overturned cart. _"Oiy, shem, the look on his face, yeah? Made him fly right up, innit right?"_ Her accent had been identical to Maroth Tabris when they had first met. Her accent had faded with time but her fiery nature never did.

Melina can't help but wonder what her friend will be like after... after Izanami finishes helping her. It makes her skin crawl to think of that demon helping Jalyn but... There was no other choice to make, not really. Melina would sacrifice her own life it meant protecting Jalyn.

"Here, look at this. Do you know what this is?"

Melina blinks, shaken from her thoughts by Alistair's voice once more. She looks over at him and the wilted rose he's holding. She remembers seeing him with it on occasion, thumbing it as he stared off into the distance with a thoughtful expression on his face. Did he think she hadn't seen one before?

She smiles. "It's a rose. We use the petals for medicinal tea. They're very good as a sedative or crushed up and placed over a wound to keep it from infection," she replies, reciting some of the knowledge she has as a healer. It was a healers job to know many forms of healing, not just magical. She meets his eyes, golden and warm in the firelight. 

Alistair grins, a bit lopsided. "Ah yes, yes it is. I didn't know it was so useful, but I guess that makes it even better then."

"You've been holding onto it for awhile," she says, hoping to guide him into explaining whatever it is he's trying to say.

"I picked it in Lothering. I remember thinking how could something so beautiful live in a world with so much despair and ugliness," he replies. 

Melina nods, staring at the flower. He's had it all this time? No wonder it's begun to wilt and wither. "Here, let me see it," she says. He blushes, handing her the flower. She holds it in her hands and closes her eyes, letting a little bit of magic flow into the flower. The petals perk up, becoming a little fuller and more lively. "There. It's not permanent, but your flower should last a little longer, now."

His eyes are wide as he stares at the rose. "Maker's breath. What did you do?"

She blushes. "I- I'm sorry, I shouldn't have used my magic so casually," she replies, remembering he's a templar. "It's just, it looked wilted so I cast a rejuvenation spell on it. I- I wasn't sure if it would work," she admits.

"You're amazing," he whispers, causing her blush to deepen and heat up her entire body. Why is her heart suddenly fluttering so much?

She shakes her head, curls tumbling around her round face. "I- What do you plan on doing with it?" she asks, changing the topic.

Alistair looks at her a moment before tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I thought I might... give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you."

 _''how could something so beautiful live in a world with so much despair and ugliness...''_ He... thinks she's beautiful? Her entire body heats up in embarrassment at the compliment. 

"You've listened to me whine and complain so much but... You haven't had it easy, either. You offered to help us defeat the Blight but it's been hard on you, hasn't it? Seeing so much death everywhere... I thought maybe I could say something. Tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this darkness."

Rare and wonderful... She swallows past the lump in her throat and meets his gaze. "Alistair, I- I don't know what to say. Nobody has ever given me a gift before," she replies, voice barely above a whisper. "But I feel the same way about you. You're this bright bit of sun through all of this."

Andraste forgive her. She knows she shouldn't feel this way, not for anyone. She's a mage. She should help defeat the blight and then go back home to the tower and live out the remainder of her life dutifully serving the Maker. She looks at Alistair. But Maker help her, she can't help but want to stay here, with him, instead. 

Alistair licks his lips, looking into her eyes with an expression she's not familiar with. "Can I, uh, kiss you?" he asks, cheeks reddening in the moonslight.

She shouldn't say yes. She's just a mage. She isn't supposed to fall for anyone. She should tell him no. But as she looks into his eyes, her heart pounding like mad beneath her breast, she finds it impossible to say. Such a small word but she can't say it. She doesn't want to say it. 

"Yes." She whispers the word, soft, shy. 

His hand reaches behind her head, pulling her in close. His lips are warm against her as he kisses her, soft and sweet. Her spine tingles at the sensation. When he pulls back, her eyelids flutter open slowly. This was more than the kiss she had shared with Cullen. That had been such a brief passing of lips it was barely a kiss at all. This was warm and tender and her body feels warm as she recalls the feel of his tongue slipping past her lips.

Suddenly, a sword is pointed at her. She looks up to see Cullen standing there, a dark scowl on his face. 

"What are you doing, blood mage?" he asks, voice a low, dangerous growl. "What spell did you cast on the warden?"

Alistair stands up, eyes darker than she's ever seen them. "Put your sword down, Ser Cullen," he says, voice soft. "Mels hasn't done anything wrong. I wanted to kiss her."

Cullen sneers down at her. "I know her, Grey Warden. This is how she is. She pretends to be sweet and kind to force you to fall in love with her. Then she turns on you, like every mage."

Pretends? Forces? Melina frowns at his words.

_Melina looks up into Cullen's warm gaze, heart fluttering like a trapped butterfly beneath her ribs. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and she can tell he feels nervous. "Ser Cullen?" she asks, stepping forward, hand resting on his arm._

_ He glances down at her hand a moment before meeting her gaze again. "M-Me-Mellie, Enchanter Ul-Uldred sent me to you f-for, p-pardon my asking, but I damaged my shoulder in training and-" _

_ She gasps, opening up her barrier. She's hit with a strong pain in his shoulder and is surprised to see he isn't even flinching. "You're in pain, I'm so sorry," she says, clutching his shirt sleeve. "Please, I- I can help, if Enchanter Uldred says I'm allowed to." She bites her lip, unsure despite her brave words. She hasn't taken her harrowing yet, what if she fails? It's a simple healing spell, but... _

_She shakes her head, curls tossing around. No, she mustn't think that way. She guides Cullen to a bench and gently cradles his shoulder between her hands. She closes her eyes and calls a spirit of compassion to help her._

_ She pours her energy through her hands and into his shoulder, healing the torn muscle she can feel. Softly, she eases the pain, erasing any traces of bruising. Her lips part as she furrows her brow, focusing on healing and not hurting. They're so close, and it's easy for mages to confuse the two if they aren't strong enough. _

_ She slowly opens her eyes, lashes fluttering against her round cheeks for a moment. Ser Cullen's staring at her face, a soft expression in his eyes. "By the M-maker you're most beautiful, Mellie," he whispers. "I- I'm sorry for being so forward," he continues, blushing as he rubs the back of his neck. _

_Her own cheeks are equally warm as she leans forward, pressing her lips gently against his. A simple, brief press of lips, and she can feel his shock at her action._

_ He jerks a back, face red as an apple. "I-I-I should, I mean, that is we sh-shouldn't.... you're a m-mage and I'm a temp-templar, I- have to-" He stops abruptly, turning on his heel and quickly walking away. _

That had been her first kiss. They had met in secret a few times after that before Cullen told her they mustn't see each other alone again. _"I can't protect you when I feel this way."_ Those had been his words as he pressed a soft kiss against her hand. _"I'm sorry. I'll always protect you."_

And now here he stands, a sword at her throat. The blood mages must have done awful, unimaginable things to make him hate her so. She looks up at him and pushes back the tears. "Ser Cullen, I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry." She's not sure what she's apologizing for but she can tell that he's in pain. Nobody should go through what he's been through. 

Alistair frowns. "You should't apologize," he mumbles, face turning red as he clenches his fists. 

Cullen lowers his sword, though his scowl remains in place. "Be careful she doesn't bewitch you, Grey Warden," he warns. He slowly backs away, heading toward his spot to stand guard.

Melina's hands are shaking as she watches him go. She wants to heal him but no magic can cure this wound. 

"Mels?"

She shakes her head, quick snaps back and forth. She doesn't want to talk. She's tired. It's all too much for her and she just wants to rest. Tears flow down her cheeks and Alistair pulls her into a hug. She's not sure how long they sit there like this with him holding her as she silently cries but it feels like hours. Eventually, she falls asleep like that, cradled in his warm embrace in front of the fire. Just a little rest and she'll be fine, right? Just a short rest and things will return to normal. 

Right?

~*~*~

Melina holds Jalyn's hand tight in her own as they cross the bridge to Redcliffe castle. Regret weighs her shoulders down, making her feel heavy and lethargic. Jalyn smiles at a butterfly floating in the air. She hadn't seen this smile in over a year. She hadn't realized how much she missed it.

What will Jowan say?

"What is on your mind?" Jalyn asks.

Her expression is blank again. It hurts Melina to see it. She takes a deep breath. "I'm just worried about Connor. I hope we can save him."

Jalyn stares up at the large door of the castle. "If it is you who is entering the Fade, then the child will be fine."

"Ah, you have returned, no? Good. The demon child has been nothing but trouble since you left." It's the assassin, Zevran, who greets them, blood staining his cheeks.

She takes another deep breath. She has to stay strong. For Connor.

She enters the castle and her eyes immediately search for Jowan. She sees him, in a corner, his robes soaked with sweat. His eyes light up when he sees Jalyn. He rushes over to them, stumbling on his long robes on the way.

"My love...." He whispers it, so soft, unsure. He turns his gaze on Melina. "Why is she here?"

Jalyn blinks at him a moment. "The two of you are travelling together?" she asks.

Melina bites her lip and nods. Jalyn lets out a small laugh, the sound still strange and a little off. 

"I did not think that the two of you would ever work together," she continues, a soft smile playing on the edges of her thin lips.

Jowan's eyes widen. "She... She laughed. How? What is this?"

Alistair rests a hand on the curve of Melina's back. "We'll explain later. Right now, Connor needs us."

Daveth grunts, fiddling with his broken bow string. "Did we lose anymore villagers?"

Melina sends a prayer to the Maker that the answer is no. She can't bare it if anyone else has died, not when they could have saved them quicker. Please, please be alright. Please.

Zevran grins, but it's a weary sort of grin. "We did not, Grey Warden. However, we did find a woman hiding the cellars. Quite beautiful, her name is Valena." 

~*~*~

The Fade forms around her, bright white and shifting. Small echos of Conner and the Arl race around in circles, crying out, clearly disorientated. Strange, half-sentences that make little to no sense pierce the air, and their pain weighs heavy on Melina's heart. A flash of light behind her and she steels herself as the now familiar scent of cinnamon and burnt wood fills the air.

"Ah, I had not expected to return to the Fade so soon. Consider yourself fortunate that I like you well enough to come here, mortal."

Melina turns, recognizing the voice of Izanami. Her eyes widen as she sees the demon back in her natural form; dark hair pulled in an elegant twist atop her head and golden yellow eyes gleaming. Her dress is a faded red with a plunging neckline. There's a strange necklace laced around her neck with symbols Melina doesn't recognize.

Melina frowns. "I wish you liked me less then," she replies sourly, fidgeting with her robes.

"You almost seem to be gaining a sense of humour, mortal. How quaint," Izanami quips.

Melina shakes her head, hand reaching to clutch her Andrastian pendant once again as she walks along the narrow, twisting path. Her head feels full of fog and a slight dizziness clogs her brain. She clutches the pendant tighter, the sharp edges biting into her palm. The pain drives back the fog and she continues walking, ignoring the ghostly images of Conner shouting at her to leave, blaming her for his father's illness.

Izanami walks beside her, her presence quiet, almost still, and she seems to float rather than walk. The path loops back, shifting through strange portals that make Melina's skin crawls. A question tugs on her mind as they wander the Fade, searching for the demon's central lair. "Why did you want to leave the Fade so bad?" she asks, brow furrowed. "Isn't this your home?"

Izanami chuckles, the sound soft. "Is it?" She purses her lips for a moment, seemingly pondering the question. "Do mortals not wish to leave their homes, to explore other lands?" she asks, answering the question with another question.

"I didn't," Melina answers. "I miss my home. And we don't usually steal other's bodies in order to leave," she adds.

Izanami nods, a small smile twisting her lips. "Nor did we, once. But that was so long ago, I can barely remember it myself. Just remember this, my mortal friend, we did not decide this as our fate. It was not we who decided this separation; it was forced upon us."

"I don't understand," Melina replies, brows furrowed.

"No? You will, one day, when He awakens from his slumber."

Melina opens her mouth to ask another question, confused by the vague responses of the demon, when a low growl makes the ground vibrate beneath her feet. She turns, and sees a another demon situated in the center of a unnatural place with twisted columns and peculiar symbols, The air is thick with a dark fog that hovers along the ground, black and sick and smelling of burning sulfur.

Izanami places a hand on her shoulder, eyes narrowed. "Be careful, mortal, this one is twisted from its purpose."

"How are you even here?" Melina snaps, tired of the Izanami's constant pestering.

Izanami raises an eyebrow. "I'm... Meditating. The physical form sleeps and so I can return, if I will it."

Melina takes a deep breath, watching the new demon as it laughs in madness. Its skin is tinged a deep purple, body covered in black cloth filled with rips and tears. Horns twist atop its head, long lank of purple hair so dark as to appear almost black falling to its shoulders. A thin, pointy tail pokes up, twitching like a cat's tail.

"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder," she whispers, holding the Chant of Light close in her heart like a shield against the demon's allure.

The demon laughs, a cold sound that echos strangely. "You think your precious Maker will save you now? Fool," she says. "Look upon me, mortal, for I am the one known as Covet and I have granted the boy's wish. Do you truly think someone as weak as you can defeat me?"

Izanami scoffs, looking down at her fingernails as if she's bored. "Covet, is it? You were to grant wishes, then? A mild form of desire. I would say you failed spectacularly then, as the Arl is hardly well."

"It was a fair deal," Covet growls, teeth bared in a snarl. "Stay out of this. This is not your realm, Choice."

She grins, turning toward Melina and winking. "See? I told you I am a Choice spirit." Izanami chuckles again, before continuing.

Melina rolls her eyes. "You're both demons," she retorts. 

She takes a deep breath and summons her mana. She can feel it pouring through her, burning along her skin like cold fire. She pushes outward toward the demon, frowning as it merely singes its hair. She grits her teeth and pushes more mana toward the demon and this time it cries out in pain.

"Wait, please! I can offer you so much more than Choice! I can offer you power, wealth, I can teach you magic beyond your imagination, please," Covet cries out, black blood dripping from its lip. 

Melina tightens her jaw, eyes narrowed. "I do not accept," she replies, voice lower than its ever been. "Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written," she whispers, sending out another strong bolt of mana.

Covet growls and pushes back, its own energy burning along Melina's skin. She continues pushing against the demon's energy and it feels like when you try to push the wrong end of two magnets together. 

"I can make the templar love you!"

Images of her and Cullen embracing fill her mind. She can even feel his lips on her, soft and warm. Then the images change to her and Alistair instead, his smile gentle as he ruffles her hair. He bends low, pressing his lips against hers and it steals her breath. 

"I will not bend to another demon's will," she says as Covet screams.

She watches as the demon's body melts into the ground, bleeding black and purple.

Izanami smiles as Melina starts to feel herself falling from the Fade. "Well done, indeed, mortal..."

~*~*~

Melina watches as Connor takes slow, steady breaths from his bed. His eyelids flutter as he dreams, hopefully something peaceful. The chair is hard beneath her butt as she sits there, alone in the candlelight. Irving had said the Circle will take Connor, when he wakes up, but that the templars may not be lenient with him since he had already fallen prey to a demon once. 

She closes her eyes against her tears. Maker watch over him, she prays. Her world feels off center. In just three months, she's faced down countless demons. First it was Mouse from her Harrowing. Then there were so many demons in the Fade. Sloth. Izanami. And now there was Covet. She had defeated them all- except Izanami. Faced with the one choice she couldn't turn away from....

She starts to cry, great heaving, silent sobs as she sits in Connor's room alone.

The door creaks open. "Mels?" a voice asks. 

"I'm sorry," is all she can whisper as she continues to cry. 

Alistair walks over to her, wrapping his around around her shaking form and pressing his chin atop her head. "Hey now, it's alright. Let it all out," he whispers into her hair.

She clings to him as she cries, snot and tears mingling on her face. She cries for all the villagers that died before they even reached Redcliffe. She cries for Maroth and his family that she tore him away from a second time. She cries for Jalyn and even for Jowan. She cries for Cullen and the dead templars. For the mages they lost in the battle. For the gentle spirits that had been twisted by blood magic and fear. For Wynne, trapped inside her own mind. And lastly, she allows herself to cry for her, for all the hope she had lost since leaving Kinloch Hold.

Alistair strokes her hair as he holds him and he smells of clean soap and freshly laundered clothes. She inhales the scent, drawing comfort in the familiarity and simpleness of it. His presence calms her. Not because he's a templar or or a warden. But because he's Alistair.

Is this what love feels like?

After she finally stops crying, Alistair motions for her to follow him. Her cheeks are still wet as she walks behind him down the long hallway toward the castle's library. The sun is shining in brightly through the large open windows, spilling in across the deep red carpet and rows of books. She inhales, a smile curving across her face as she breathes in the warm, familiar scent of old books.

Her fingers brush gently against the spines, absentmindedly looking at the titles. She wishes she had time to read some of the books here. Kinloch Hold mostly had books on magic, a few on Fereldan history, and three Chantry fables. The fables were here favorite. 

"Do you remember Bryce? Daveth mentioned you met him."

Melina frowns as she turns to look at Alistair. Bryce? "Oh! Yes, the one with long hair! He seemed... sad."

Alistair swallows past the lump in his throat. "Yeah. Lost most of his family to the Arl of Amaranthine. But he had two siblings he wanted to find."

"What happened to him?"

He takes a deep breath, running his hand across his face before turning toward her. "He died. In the Joining. I'm not supposed to tell you this, because you're not a warden, but not everyone survives the ritual to become one of us. I think his grief was too strong, so he couldn't fight off the taint. I don't know. Duncan knew more than me." He sighs, shaking his head. "But you don't need to hear me whine about that some more. Bryce was a Cousland, one of the highest noble families in Ferelden."

She listens carefully, though she's still unsure as to why he's telling her this, of all people.

"Daveth is sending us to Denerim. We're to seek out Brother Genitivi. If the ashes are real, they might cure the Arl. When he wakes up, he's going to suggest making me king. I just know it," he says, his distaste at the idea colouring his voice.

King. She had forgotten he's a prince. How could she forget that? Oh Maker, she kissed a prince. Her knees feel suddenly weak. Mages aren't supposed to be with _anyone..._ but a future King? Oh Andraste forgive me, she prays. 

"I'd make a terrible king," Alistair continues. "But if we can find out where the Cousland siblings are, Lord Fergus or Lady Eilonwy would make a far better candidate than I. And besides, I owe it to him. In the Wilds, he told me I had to find them if he didn't make it. I promised him I would."

Finally, she understands what he's asking. "You want to look for them in Denerim," she replies. "But isn't that where Loghain is?"

Alistair nods. "We'd have to be careful. Maroth told me some people to look up, some that might help. Will you go with me? I- I don't want to go alone."

Melina offers him a small smile. She reaches for his hand and holds it tight. "Of course I will," she replies. "If it's important to you, then yes."

He pulls her in for a hug and sighs. "Thank you, Mels. I think I'd be lost in this madness if it weren't for you."

She doesn't reply and tell him she feels the same, even though it's true. She just holds him close, praying that the Maker will forgive her yet another sin.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with the last chapter and also for editing it so many times after posting. Brand new content that wasn't in the original so I made a few errors. See end notes for a little history on this project, if you're interested. Completely able to ignore. I hope this chapter looks okay. Most of what's been posted has been work already written, just rearranged and edited. This chapter however is 90% brand new content and therefor I worry it doesn't flow as smoothly as the earlier chapters.

A large black bear stands in front of them, skin rotting and sick with the taint. Its eyes glow a deep red, saliva dripping from its mouth in a thick foam. The smell of dying flesh, aging mold, and fresh blood hits Jalyn hard, turning her stomach as she stands still, watching it with caution. 

It roars loudly, a terrifying sound that shakes the very earth. The dog leaps toward the beast, ready to tear at it with teeth and claws. She watches Melina pull her mana from the Fade, narrowing her concentration toward the beast. She whispers a spell to hold the blighted bear still, crushing its life in a magical prison. Leliana furrows her brow as she fires arrow after arrow into its thick, decomposing hide, and Melina uses her magic to catch the tips of the arrows aflame.

Wynne and Jowan throw their magic at the beast as well. There's something odd about Wynne's magic. It doesn't feel the same as Jalyn remembers it. 

Alistair lets out a roar as he slams his shield into the creature to no avail. He stabs it instead, the sound of the blade pushing through rotting flesh creating a sick squelching sound.

Jalyn's eyes dart around and she sees a few medium sized rocks nearby. She wants to be helpful, too. She grabs them, bundling them up in her robes and throwing one, hitting the beast on the nose at it swipes a paw at the dog. The dog yelps, the sound piercing the air. Melina eyes widen as she meets Jalyn's eyes, sweat pouring down her face. Jalyn throws another rock, and another, pelting the beast with all of her strength.

Melina summons a small swarm of stinging insects, directing them toward the bear. They bite and sting at its face, blinding it as it roars in pain, unable to see to attack the dog further. The mabari almost seems to grin in response as he leaps toward the bear's throat, tearing it out with his teeth.

Melina lets herself fall to her knees, exhaustion making her body sag. "Maker's breath," she whispers. "That poor bear. He must have been so sick." 

The dog limps over to her, panting. He licks her face, nudging her with his big head and whimpering. "I'll be alright, boy. Here, let me heal you," she says. A soft pinkish blue light covers the hound. "There's a good boy, come on."

Alistair offers her his hand, brow furrowed together. "Mi'lady," he whispers.

Jalyn watches with a frown as Melina's cheeks turn red. She lets the templar-warden help her to her feet but he doesn't let go of her once she's upright. Instead, he presses a soft kiss against the back of her hand and then keeps it clasped in his as they continue walking.

A strange bitter emotion consumes her, turning her mood dark for the rest of the journey. 

~*~*~

Denerim. Home. Or at least, it had been. The Brother's house is small and directly across from the Noble's tavern. There's something strange about the house, something Jalyn can't quite put her finger on. The lights are low as they enter the tiny living room space. Her mind wanders as she walks around, leaving the questioning to the others. Genitivi.... Genitivi... Where had she heard that name? Ah, right. He wrote many books on the lost mysterious of Thedas and the artifacts he found throughout his travels. Despite his Chantry bias, his works had always interested her before and after the Rite.

A rank smell wafts from the back of Brother Genitivi's small home. Jalyn runs her fingertips across the door to the back room, the wood splintered and rough against her skin. She reaches for the handle as her companions question Weylon, a strange sense of curiosity pawing at her in flickering waves. Should she open the door? Or leave it be?

"Hey, you! You can't go in there, what're you doing?" Weylon asks, tone harsh and demanding.

Jalyn turns to him, face neutral. "There is a strange smell. It reminds me of corpses."

Weylon's expression grows dark, eyes narrowing in burning anger. "You should leave," he warns, voice low. "And keep your pet tranquil on a tighter leash."

Melina frowns at his words, hands fidgeting with her tangled curls. "She isn't a pet, don't say that," she admonishes. "Jalyn, are you sure? Corpses?"

Leliana takes a few steps back, hand reaching for her bow. "I thought you were acting suspicious. Tell me, what really awaits for us at the docks of Lake Calenhad? A trap?"

"Woah, woah! We're not attacking him, are we? We can't just attack him because you're feeling suspicious," Alistair says, waving his hands at her in a 'please put the bow down' motion.

A slow grins spreads across Weylon's face as flames bursts from his fingertips. "I suppose I no longer need to keep up this charade," he whispers, throwing a fireball toward Jalyn.

"NO!" Melina screams the word, throwing up a barrier spell around Jalyn the protects her from the worst of the blast.

Leliana grabs an arrow in a blur of speed that Jalyn had not believed possible, knocking it on her bow and sending it straight through the mage's neck. He falls to his knees, blood pouring from the wound. "You... must not... go. I must... protect... Andraste... ." he whispers, words trailing off as he slumps forward, laying face down in his own blood.

Jalyn's heart thumps rapidly beneath her breast as small tendrils of fear slither inside her. Melina's hands are cool against her face as the other woman checks her for wounds. "Maker, Jalyn, are you alright?"

She nods, closing her eyes. "That was... alarming," she admits.

"I'm glad you're safe now," Melina replies, pressing a soft kiss against her forehead.

"Me too," Jalyn whispers, eyes opening.

Leliana hums low in her throat, returning from the back room with a heavy sigh. "I believe the real Weylon is dead," she mutters absentmindedly. "It looks like Brother Genitivi has gone to a place called Haven? In all of my travels, never have I heard of such a place."

Melina moves over, peering at the small journal the sister is carrying. "Ah, we should get this information to Daveth, then."

Leliana frowns, blue eyes flashing. "What? You're joking, yes? We must go to Haven at once. What if Brother Genitivi is in danger?"

"But, Daveth said to bring what we found to him first," Melina replies, shaking her head slowly. "We'd be disobeying orders if we went there ourselves."

"He could be dead by the time the Wardens are able to get there! And besides, we have Alistair. He's a warden, too."

Alistair's face turns pale. "No, no leave me out of this. I'll do whatever Melina decides."

Wynne scoffs, her lips curling in a strange sneer. "You have no backbone, boy," she says, voice harsh and cold. "Who are you to burden this poor girl like that?"

Melina chews her bottom lip, pacing in a tight line with her brow furrowed. She wrings her hands, mumbling under her breath.

"Shem?" Jalyn asks, shifting in place.

"I'm scared," she admits. "But Brother Genitivi... We have to help him, right? We can't risk letting him die just because I'm afraid."

"The righteous stand before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand." Leliana offers her a small smile. "We won't be alone. The Maker is with us. He will guide our steps, to protect Andraste's ashes."

Jalyn turns, staring at the corpse of the dead impostor Weylon. She can't help but think, as she watches the blood congeal, that the Sister's words sounded awfully close to the dead mage's.

It doesn't take them long to remove the bodies. They make a soft splash when they hit the water at the bottom of the well. Alistair clears his throat, shifting from foot to foot.

"While we're in Denerim, can we look up a man named Slim Couldry? Tabris said if anyone could find us information on the Lady Eilonwy, it would be him."

Melina nods. "Yes, Jalyn and I can go with you while Leliana, Jowan, and-" She pauses, glancing at Wynne. "While the others buy some food in the market place."

Jalyn frowns. There's been an odd air of hostility between Melina and Wynne ever since they left the tower. It doesn't make sense. Melina loves her mentor. When they were children, she used to call her "mother" any time she had a nightmare or was scared by her magic. Wynne never corrected her and eventually Melina grew out of the habit, but her love for the stubborn old woman remained. It is not logical she would be hostile toward her now. 

Unless something happened at the tower? What could drive Melina, of all people, to hate anyone? The only person she hates is Jowan and that hatred is only there because his blood magic had endangered Jalyn.

She pushes the thought to the back of her mind. It does not matter. She needs to focus on their current goal. She wants to help. She wants to do more than throw rocks and get them in trouble.

The back alleys of Denerim remind her of home. How many hours had she spent playing here among the beggars and thieves? She can still remember sneaking out of the orphanage and then slipping through a crack in the alienage's wall. Nobody ever paid any attention to the dirty, bone thin elven child. 

Except the guards. She smiles, remembering the one she had accidentally used magic on. Captain Rogers had been his name. He was always the one to catch her. His punishments had never been harsh, though. Just hour long lectures about how dangerous it was for kids to be playing in the alleys. The last time he had caught her stealing food. 

_"Maker help me, child, you're giving me grey hairs. You know I have to punish you for this one, right? That merchant isn't going to let this slide. I have to take you to a cell, just for a few days-"_

_At the word 'cell' Jalyn feels panic turn her blood cold. "NO! I won't go to your shem prison! Nobody ever comes back from there! You'll keep me forever just like my pa! I won't go!" she screamed, throwing her hands up._

She had felt a burst of energy flood her body and suddenly, Captain Rogers was floating six feet in the air. She was never able to repeat the trick, not in all her years of study at the circle. Leorah said it was likely caused by her uncontrollable fear.

"W'at're ya lot doin' back 'ere? This ain't fer fancy folk like yerselfs," a man says, eyes narrowing as he watches them from the shadows.

Melina clears her throat and drops a curtsy toward the man. "We're looking for Slim Couldry, ser. Please, do you know where we might find him?"

The man raises one eyebrow. "Slim? W'at're ya lookin' fer him fer?"

"Maroth Tabris has sent us," Jalyn supplies, trying to be helpful.

The man's expression grows darker. "Ya mean t'at blighter isn't friggin' dead yet? Knob-headed trouble makin' arsehole," he replies, spitting on the ground. "Sure, I'll take ya to Slim. C'mon."

Melina turns toward them. "Do you think it's safe?"

Alistair smiles, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Don't worry, Mels. I'll be with you."

Jalyn frowns. "So will I, shem," she mutters.

Is this... jealousy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, originally my Big Damn HeadcanonTM had a Tabris, Amell, Surana, Cousland, Brosca, two Aeducans, and a Mahariel all as wardens. One of those "All Origin made the Wardens" AUs. 
> 
> Then I decided that only some of them would be wardens and others would be companions. I also had Carver as a warden during the Blight, instead of Daveth. Eilonwy Cousland, the character mentioned last chapter, was originally the star and main warden. 
> 
> Then I thought that maybe this project had too many characters and decided to split the stories. Since Amell and Surana were best friends, they stayed in the same story. Originally, Tabris and Surana were cousins so they also stayed together. Brosca and my Aeducans went to one story and Cousland and Carver to a third. But I could never get Couslands' story right so I stopped trying, even though she was my favorite, and just focused on this project.
> 
> It wasn't until the rewrite that I decided to bring back my Cousland and my Brosca to this series and recombine them. Both of whom only play smallish roles in this story but come into play in larger roles during the Awakening story and beyond. I scrapped the Aeducan and Carver story lines but who knows, I might do something with that idea later, if I ever finish this. 
> 
> Fun fact: Melina was originally male. Then I thought maybe she'd romance Carver until I remembered that they were cousins and scrapped that idea so fast, lol.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW scene at the end, smut between Zevran and Maroth. Just stop at the ~*~*~ if you don't want to read it.

Maroth had not expected to enter the great dwarven city in his life, and he certainly hadn't expected to enter the tall gates covered in blood. But judging by the display of brutality they had just witnessed between two dwarves over who should be King, a little bit of blood splatter was not an uncommon sight for the stout folk. A woman with jagged cut red hair watches them from the shadows. A strange geometrical tattoo is splattered across her left cheek and forehead. She grins, a gap between her front two teeth, when she notices him looking at her.

"Oiy, we're being watched," he mutters to Daveth. 

Daveth nods. "I see," he replies. "Let's say hello, yeah?"

"I think our friend has ta same idea," Maroth replies as the dwarf makes their way toward them.

She wears a playful grin on her face, scars cutting across her fingers and arms. "'Ello. What a strange group you lot are, to be down here visiting the dwarva," she says. "Name's Gerdie Brosca and I know why you're here."

Daveth exchanges a glance with him, both eyebrows raised. "Yeah? Tell me then, what're ya wanting?"

"You want the help of the dwarva to help your surfacer war against the 'spawn, right salroka? Well, then you'll be needing the rightful Queen of Orzammar." Her grin widens. "Let's have a drink and talk things over, salroka."

"Salwhat?" Maroth asks.

Gerdie just chuckles. She rubs the side of her nose and stares up at them, her large dark blue eyes bold against the deep tan of her skin. The makeup around her eyes and lips is all dark black, making her look even more intimidating. Her hair looks like a child took a pair of scissors to it, choppy and rough and falling mostly around her chin though Maroth can see a bald spot where it was cut too short near the back top portion of her head. Her smile is easy and casual but her stance is on edge. She carries herself like a fighter. Carta? He's dealt with them once or twice for a smuggling job but everyone knows messing with the carta could be fatal.

He follows Daveth across the large open space. All around him is rock, high as he can see. It's terrifying to think about how all that rock can fall on his head at any second. 

The smell of stale piss and ale permeates the air as Maroth steps over a pile of vomit, lip curled in disgust. “Well, ain’t this a charmin’ spot. Seen nicer taverns in the back alleys of Denerim,” he grumbles, looking around for a clean seat.

Gerdie leads them toward a table at the back where two women and two men are gathered. One woman has dark skin and tight curly black hair. She has a similar brand to Gerdie on her face but the ink is different. It looks like someone has drawn it on with a quill, a temporary brand. Her brown eyes are set deep in her face as she stares at them underneath long, messy bangs. The first man has long braided hair and tanned skin. A small brand sits on his left cheek. The other one has a thick red beard and long red hair to match but no brand and his armor is nicer and prettier looking. They're the only ones standing. Must be bodyguards of some sort. 

Then there's the final woman. She wears a heavy red cloak that covers her head, hiding her features in shadows. As they draw nearer, the dark skinned woman stands up, reaching for her dagger. Gerdie shakes her head, lips splitting into a deep smile. "Hey salroka, easy there. These them Grey Wardens I told ya about," she says, gesturing at Daveth. "Warden, and friends, this here is Bruna Cadash, a high-ranking member of the carta, and Leske a not so high ranking member of the carta."

The man she called Leske grunts. "S'not what your sister said last night," he mutters.

Gerdie laughs, shaking her head as she gestures toward the cloaked woman. "And this is Lady Selin Aeducan, the true heir of Orzammar, and her second Ser Gorim of House Silica."

Gorim winces. "Saelac, Brosca. It's House Saelac," he grumbles.

The woman rises, pulling back her hood as she stands. Long golden hair is braided down to her butt and her light blue eyes glisten in the low candlelight. She bows slightly toward them, a grim smile curving the edges of her lips. "Please, have a seat. Corra will bring us drinks," she says, her accent more polished and refined compared to Gerdie's.

Maroth takes a seat in one of the chairs, frowning hard. “Bloody friggin’ chairs are too short,” he says.

Zevran chuckles, leaning against the wall behind him. “Well, they are made for the stout folk, my friend. I doubt they see many tall people here.”

“You’re complainin’? Just imagine how us humans feel,” Daveth quips, grinning.

“Did ya just call me short, shem?” Maroth asks, shifting in his seat.

Daveth gives up trying to get comfortable and finally stands up, leaning against the heavy stone wall instead. “Wouldn’t dream of it, wolfy.”

"For such a short people they do rather like their buildings… tall," Morrigan adds, looking up at the high ceiling.

Sten growls low in his throat. "...I should have stayed in that cage."

Gerdie looks at him out of the corner of her eye. "Don't see many of you Quaternary lot down here," she says.

"I am Qunari," Sten replies.

She shrugs. "Same thing. Anyway," she says, putting her boot on one of the chairs. "How much do you know about what's going on down here, Warden?"

Now Daveth shrugs. He shifts from one foot to another, eyeing the group carefully. "Not much," he admits. "Heard some rumors coming in that one the King's children murdered him and the next in line for the throne, but seems that nobody can agree which child did the killin'."

Selin frowns. "Forgive me, Grey Warden, but it is strange to hear you put it so plainly. It was my father and eldest brother who were murdered. My younger brother, Bhelen..." She pauses, a weary expression crossing her face.

Gorim lays a hand on her shoulder, thick brows knitted together in a frown. "Milady?"

She turns her head to smile at him. "I am alright, love," she says, voice soft. Gorim's face turns bright red as his eyes dart around as if to see who might have overheard them but the Lady Aeducan appears unconcerned. "Bhelen is the one who murdered them. The youngest of us, Bhelen was always headstrong and foolishly idealistic. He thinks if he rules with an iron fist, he can improve the lives of our people whether they like the improvement or not. I might have supported him, had he not murdered our father and framed Trian for it."

Bruna snorts. "Forgive me for sayin' so, your Ladyship, but you would have been fine with it had he just included you in the plan."

Selin grins. "True enough," she admits. "The politics of my people are not pretty, Grey Warden. But I think we can help each other."

A tavern wench joins them, a large pitcher of some sort of alcohol in her hands. 

Morrigan sneers at her, yellow eyes strange in the low light. "I do not even want to think from what manner of substance a cave-dwelling people would create their spirits." 

“Piss. It looks like piss,” Maroth mutters, staring at the half empty glass.

Gerdie chugs a large mug full, smacking her lips at the end. "Fine dwarva ale, salroka! Drink up and enjoy it," she says, slamming the mug onto the table.

“I think you are right, Tabris. This isn’t water, it is actual piss, no?” Zevran says, pushing the glass far away with a shudder.

Selin smiles, taking a long sip of the ale. "It is not our finest brew, but alas I can only serve you that if we were at the palace."

Daveth clears his throat. His fingers dance along the edges of the glass of ale but he doesn't drink any of it. Maroth isn't sure if it's to keep his head clear or because of the color of the liquor. 

"You said we could help each other, Your Highness?

Selin nods again, taking another long but slow sip. "Indeed, Grey Warden. There are two favors I must ask of you. An informant of ours by the name of Nadezda will be here shortly with information on the current leader of the Orzammar arm of the Carta, Jarvia."

Maroth watches Gerdie clench her fists. A slight tick starts in her jaw area and her eyes appear darker than they were a moment ago. Jarvia must be more than just the leader of the carta, or at least to Gerdie. Her taunt body language screams that this is personal for her.

"I want her and every one of her lackeys dead. Leske will take her place." Selin sets down her mug of ale and watches Daveth closely, her full red lips pursed carefully. "In return, you will have our best warriors for your war."

Daveth nods. "One carta boss and her minions dead, got it. Seems easy enough. What's the other favor?"

"The templars were not aware the Wardens are just a bunch of assassins," Cullen grumbles. 

Maroth startles, having forgotten the angry man was there. "Shut it, ya knocklehead," he mutters.

Cullen just grunts in reply, leaning back into the shadows with a scowl on his face.

"The second favor is going to prove much more complicated," Selin continues. "My people have many Paragons but only one is alive today; Branka. She vanished some years ago in a mission to find the Anvil of the Void, the lost secret of the great dwarva golems. Only a Paragon can put an end to this stalemate Bhelen has cornered us into and she's somewhere in the Deep Roads."

Daveth swallows, hastily taking a long drink from the yellow ale. "Right. The Deep Roads." He sighs, running a hand across his face. "Wonderful. Just friggin' wonderful."

Maroth raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask. He's heard of the Deep Roads. Rumors of long, endless tunnels deep underground crawling with darkspawn and Maker knows what else. He's not sure exactly what they'll be like, but he's certain he isn't going to like it.

Daveth takes a deep, slow breath and blows it out through his nose. His skin is markedly paler than it was when the conversation started. Poor sod looks like his worst nightmare had came true. Maroth makes a mental note to take the man out drinking once this is over. They'll probably both need it.

A woman with long, stringy hair and a bad limp hobbles over to them. She's wearing the same brand across her face as Gerdie and Maroth can't help but to wonder why only some dwarves seem to have this marking on their face. Is it a mark of the carta?

"Naddy," Gerdie says, her smiling turning softer. "Glad to see you made it out alright, salroka."

The woman scoffs, throwing a few pieces of paper on the table. "I mights be crippled now but old Nadezda still gets around," she grumbles. She winces as she shifts her body, her eyes looking everywhere but at the Lady Aeducan. "Is there anything else ya need?"

"No, and House Aeducan thanks you for your assistance," Lady Selin replies.

Nadezda winces again, still not looking at the woman. "Right, right, well... I should get going before the guards come again," she replies, turning to leave.

"Naddy, wait," Gerdie says. "Stay and have a drink. The ale will help with the pain."

The older dwarf just shakes her head. "This ain't the place for the likes of me," she mutters before hobbling away.

Cullen watches her go, a strange expression on his face. "Her body language... She's been tortured," he says, but his voice sounds far away and haunted.

Bruna sighs but it's Gerdie who answers. "Yeah, Naddy used to run with the Carta. One of Bherat's best lieutenants. Then she was caught by one of them uptight guards. Broke both her kneecaps and then made her kneel in her own shit until the wounds became infected."

Maroth can feel his stomach churning at the thought. Sounds like something the shem would do to his people. "But why? Why do that ta one of yer own?"

Gerdie's expressions goes cold. "Because we're casteless, salroka. We ain't dwarva, not to them. We're less than dust; our names don't even make it to the Memories. Not even the Stone accepts us anymore."

Her words don't make sense to him. He doesn't understand, not really, except it seems like discrimination exists everywhere, even among a homogeneous people like the dwarves. Power corrupts everything it touches. Those that have it must have someone they can punch down, someone they can shit on to keep themselves all lofty and special. He always thought he just hated shems. Now, he's realizing that ain't true. He hates nobles.

He glances at Selin. Speaking of nobles, he wonders why these 'casteless' are working with one, if they're so bad here. She has a troubled expression on her pretty face, marred only by a single scar that runs across her lips.

"Once this unfortunate mess is dealt with, Brosca, I promise you our deal will not be forgotten," she says.

Gerdie just grunts, running her fingers through her short, messy hair. "Right, see that ya do," she mumbles, grabbing the piece of paper Nadezda had left. "Alright, Warden. Let's go. Time is rustin' and Naddy's information won't last all night. Passwords change rapid quick like in the carta."

"Wait," Selin says. She chews on her lower lip a moment while looking up at Gorim. He nods, his beard twitching slightly.

"You should meet with my brother first. If he thinks you haven't yet chosen a side, though I hope that you have, then he is less likely to send his thugs after you. Go, meet with him. See if you can gain any information from him about our Paragon. Paragon Branka's husband...." she pauses once more, chewing on her bottom lip again.

Daveth raises an eyebrow. "Yes, Your Highness?" 

Selin takes a deep breath. "Oghren, drunken fool that he is, has joined with Bhelen. He is desperate to find his wife. He's the only one she left behind when she took their house into the Deep Roads and I don't think Oghren ever got over that. Go, give him some wine and see what information you might gleam from him. He won't even speak with myself or those loyal to me."

Maroth cringes inwardly. He can't imagine how he'd have felt if Nessy left him for some grand adventure and took their whole family with her. Utterly heartbroken and ashamed, he figures. His belly rumbles with hunger. Maker, he hopes they can stop for food soon. He looks over at Daveth.

"Oiy, Dav. I'm hungry," he says with a pout. "Feed me."

Daveth lets out a choked laugh. "What do ya want me to do about that?"

"Feed me," Maroth repeats, earning a scathing look from Morrigan.

Cullen grunts behind him. "I- I am also hungry,"' he admits.

"Feed us," Maroth corrects himself. 

Daveth sighs. "Alright, alright. I'll rent us some rooms here. We'll eat and you lot can rest while I have a private word with the Lady Aeducan."

Maroth grins over at Zevran. "'Ear that? He said he's gonna rent us a room," he says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

"Your appetite is insatiable. Marvelous, truly," the Crow says, a hint of awe in his voice.

"Go, far away, now," Daveth grits out. "And if I can hear you two going at it, I'll sew your lips shut when your done."

Maroth grins. "S'not my mouth ya need ta be most worried about."

"Go," Daveth repeats.

Maroth just shrugs and grabs Zevran by the belt loop. They may not have much time, but he's going to make full use of it. As he's walking away, he can overheard Cullen and Sten talking.

"I've heard stories about the Qunari."

"Oh?"

"They conquered nearly all of the north. Tevinter, Rivain, Antiva... Much of the land was laid waste. In the northern kingdoms, they say the Qunari are implacable. Relentless. More like a landslide than an invasion. It took three Exalted Marches to drive them back to the sea."

"We'll do better next time."

~*~*~

A sharp, shooting pain makes Maroth flinch, biting his lip to keep from crying out. "I thought ya said this wouldn't hurt?" He grumbles the question, looking over his shoulder at Zevran. 

A slow, sly smile spreads across Zevran's face as he moves the candle closer to Maroth's ass. "Hush. I said it would not hurt _much_. Do not squirm so or the design will not turn out so well." He carefully takes his needle and dips it in more ink, brow furrowed in concentration. 

"W'at're ya drawin' anyway?" He cranes his neck, trying to see the tattoo design.

Zevran frowns, pinching his butt hard, and Maroth lets out a sharp yelp. "You must stop moving so much. You will see when it is done, no?"

Maroth frowns, resting his head against his bedroll. "Better not be a friggin' heart or somethin'."

"I would not be so sentimental," Zevran replies dryly, tone bare of amusement.

Eventually, he grows numb to the tiny pricks of pain shooting up through his bum and into his lower back muscles. It isn't long before Zevran lets out a satisfied sigh, running his hand across Maroth's bum with a grin. "And your first tattoo is complete, my friend. You may now look at my fabulous handiwork."

Maroth cranes his neck, eager to see. His face falls when he sees the figure of a hooded wolf in black ink on his rear end, a perfect silhouette. He narrows his eyes, staring into Zevran's golden brown orbs with his lip curled.

Zevran blinks innocently at him, pouting his lips together. "What? You do not like the image I chose for you? I think it is quite a befitting depiction of you, sneaking about in the shadows as you do."

"Wonderful," he replies. "Yer such a witty assassin."

Zevran smacks the tattoo and a stinging sensation shoots its way up Maroth's body. "Ow! W'at ya go an' do that fer?"

He grins, winking. "It is part of the ritual, of course. Sets the ink as it were," he deadpans. "I would be careful about sitting, however. Your ass will be sore for a bit, even as delectable as it is."

"Maybe I should make yers sore, to match," he grumbles, rolling over with a wince. "C'mere."

Zevran raises an eyebrow. "You wish for sex? Not that I mind, but you should probably rest," he replies, crawling towards him on all fours, despite his words to the contrary.

He grips the back of Zevran's head with his hand, fingers tangling in his hair. The assassin lets out a low moan, their tongues dancing together. "Mi amante, I..."

Maroth cuts his words off with another kiss, pulling him down toward the bedroll. He trails hot kisses down Zevran's neck, licking and nipping at the skin as he goes. Gently, he pulls up Zevran's tunic, grazing his teeth across his nipples. Zevran lets out a shiver, eyelids fluttering close. "Ah, Tabris, you do have a way of persuading a man," he whispers, breathless.

He gives a tug to Zevran's breaches, pulling them over the man's rounded ass. Maroth lowers his head, flicking his tongue delicately across the head of Zevran's erection, and then lower, licking his shaft in broad strokes. His lips are hot as they wrap around his cock, sucking and licking as his fingers massage the stretch of skin between Zevran's shaft and ass.

Maroth flicks the tip of his tongue along the underside of his length, fingers still deftly rubbing circles, grinning to himself as he hears his lover moan. 

"Ah, más," Zevran moans, clutching the grass with his hands. He sucks in air through his teeth as Maroth nips as his inner thigh. "More, yes, there."

Maroth snakes his tongue down, teasing the outer rim of his ass. "Are you going to fuck me or tease me, mi amante?" Zevran says, looking down at him with hooded eyes.

"Well, teasin's more fun, yeah?" He grins, blowing against the tip of Zevran's erection, which makes the man throw his head back and moan again.

"You Fereldans and your torture," Zevran whispers. "I like it."

Maroth grins, giving the underside of his shaft one last flick with his tongue. He presses himself against Zevran's entrance, sliding in gently with a practiced motion. Zevran's eyes flutter shut at the delicious pressure of being filled and he rakes his nails across Maroth's chest. Maroth sucks in a breath, grinning.

He thrusts in and out, the tip of his erection sliding against that point deep inside his lover, pleasure spreading through their bodies in waves.

Zevran moans, closing his eyes as he moves. "Maroth," he whispers and the thief's heart flips at the sound of his name coming from the other man's lips.

Sweet pressure grows in the base of his shaft, but he holds off, delaying his orgasm as his pulse races. He looks down into Zevran's golden brown gaze, heart pounding, as his body stiffens and clenches, a slow buildup of pleasure as he moves. He grabs Zevran's hand, entwining their fingers and stretching his arm up to rest above his head, pulling the muscles taunt. He looks into his eyes, their hands clasped tight together.

When it starts to become too much, he tilts his head back and whispers Zevran's name as he lets himself get swept away by the ecstasy of his release. Stars burst across his vision as he comes. He feels Zevran letting go as well, and the sensation doubles the pleasure for him.

Maroth falls forward, resting his cheek against Zevran's chest. His heart is still pounding in his chest, his lower abdomen sticky with fluids. "Well, I'm still hungry but too tired to move, right?" he mumbles, pressing a kiss against Zevran's chest.

Zevran grunts, running his fingers through Maroth's long hair. "Mmm, though we best get dressed. The Warden will have need of us soon enough, no?"

"No," Maroth grumbles, burying his face in the pillows.

Zevran chuckles and nips his shoulder. "Come now, you don't want to make the Warden angry, do you?"

Maroth sighs. "Right, I guess I'll get dressed," he grumbles. "Beds too short fer sleepin' anyway."


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes Slim Couldry from the Crime Wave quest line in Origins and Sera from DAI. It references the headcanon I had created in this one-shot about Sera and Jenny's backstory: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3672099/chapters/8118381
> 
> You don't have to read that to understand this chapter but it's a fun little one-shot. Basically, the short of it was Red Jenny was a real woman and the founder of the Jennies. Her and Sera had a thing before Jenny died. I wrote it before reading the lore that the Red Jennies were created a long time ago but I like my headcanon so much that I've kept it for this story. 
> 
> The Birth Rock is mentioned in The World of Thedas Vol 2.

"If you don't listen down here, you risk your breeches."

The back alley tavern is lit by a dozen or so crudely made candles. It smells strongly of ale and sweat and dirt. The man had taken them past the crowds of people dancing and drinking to a small room up the stairs. There's a chubby man sitting on the ground with a tabby cat in his lap and a blonde elf with crudely chopped hair twirling an arrow in between her fingers. 

Random clothes lay strewn around the dirty floor. A few alcohol bottles lay empty on a small table in the corner. There's a badly made painting of a plain woman with long, jagged red hair hanging above the table. A shrine? Memorial? Melina isn't sure but there's a strange, melancholy atmosphere in the room.

"If you don't listen down here, you risk your breeches," the young girl says. She looks about sixteen or seventeen years old with short, messy blonde hair. 

Alistair glances at her. "More crazy? I thought we were all full up," he quips.

Melina holds back her laughter and meets the young girl's hard stare full on. "Pardon me, Miss, but Maroth Tabris said you could help us?"

"Wolfy? Full of trouble that one, or maybe that was us. Helped him though, in the end. Lost her anyway, but helped the little one. Killed the noble pig-shit bastard, filled 'em right up with arrows I did. Sounds right, yeah?"

Melina blinks slowly. "Uh... Yes?"

The girl grins. "Course it does. I always make sense."

The man with the cat grunts. "Ya never make sense, Sera," he replies. "Always did like that 'bout ya." He sneezes, a bit of snot dripping down his upper lip. "Damn cat," he grumbles, scratching it behind the ears. 

"What's his name?" Melina asks, squatting down to pet the cat.

"Diversion," he replies. "'Ello. Name's Slim Cloudry. This 'ere is Sera. We're friends of Red Jenny," he continues, a wistful expression crossing his face. 

Melina continues petting Diversion for a moment before standing up. "You're also friends of the Dark Wolf, right? Can you help us?"

Sera shrugs, balancing the arrow on the tip of nose and not looking at anyone. "Maybe," is all she says, giggling as she tries to keep the arrow steady.

Alistair clears his throat. "We're looking for Lady Eilonwy Cousland or Lord Fergus Cousland," he says, flinching when the arrow falls off Sera's nose.

She cuts him with a cold glare. "Don't help the big ones, right? We help the little people stand up, mess with the big pricks up the the big prick castles. Let them all rot without their breeches," she mutters.

Melina sighs. "I suppose then that helping the Grey Wardens wouldn't suit you. Even though there's only two of them in all of Fereldan against the horde of darkspawn, they're much too big to need help. We shouldn't have bothered you, Miss. My apologies," Melina replies, curtsying toward the elf.

Sera narrows her eyes. "Wardens? Them darkspawn killers, yeah? Can't play in a blight. No fun, no fun! Loghain in his fancy shite castle would be angry if i helped you," she replies. She giggles, the sound long and loud in the small room. "Yeah, guess I can give you some information. Takes time though. You wait around? Or places to kill, people to see? Come back later, yeah? Always a servant or a cook or a wiper angry enough to let somethin' slip. Yeah, I'll find your Lady or Lord whatsit tits." 

And with that, she skips out of the room, waving her arrow in the air and giggling again.

Slim chokes back a laugh. "What she means is 'Yes, we'll help ya. Come back in a few weeks an' we'll know where the Couslands are.' She likes to speak in riddles." He pauses, glancing up at Melina. "Ya did 'hat on purpose, didn't ya? Goaded her into helpin' ya?"

Melina smiles. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "But we really need her help."

Slim shrugs. "Ev'rybody needs somethin'," he agrees. 

Melina turns to leave and looks at Jalyn, hovering in the back of the room. Melina sighs again. How can she protect her while searching for Andraste's Ashes? Keeping her with them just divides their attention in a fight as everyone tries to protect the one who can't fight back.

"Ser Couldry?"

Slim chokes again, laughing so hard tears spring to his eyes. "Oiy there, little Miss. Jus' call me Slim, yeah? None of them fancy titles down 'ere."

"Slim," Melina says. "Can I ask another favor from you and Sera?"

He looks up at her expectantly, rubbing his nose as it continues to drip.

"My friend...." She looks over at Jalyn. "She won't be safe with us, on the road. Can she stay with you? At least until we come back?"

Slim raises an eyebrow but Jalyn replies first. "Shem, no. You cannot leave me behind," she says. 

Melina frowns as she looks into Jalyn's deep green eyes. "Jalyn, I-"

"I want to protect you," Jalyn interrupts. "I can be useful."

Her words cut like a knife across Melina's heart. "You can help us by staying here," she says, grabbing Jalyn's hand. "Please?"

Slim clears his throat. "She can stay, but she best help out 'round 'ere." He glances at the pile of dirty clothes. "Place needs a good cleanin'."

Jalyn frowns. "I will do as you command," she says, voice void of any emotion.

Melina holds back another sigh and presses a kiss against her friend's cheek. "We'll be back before you know it, Jalyn. I love you," she says.

She doesn't look back at Jalyn as she and Alistair leave the tavern. It's a long walk back to Brother Genitivi's house and they both remain silent the entire time, lost in their own thoughts. She wishes she could leave Izanami behind but she can't think of any excuse that makes sense as to why they would leave their second "healer mage" behind. The idea of bringing a demon to Andraste's sacred resting place... Her stomach churns at the thought of the blasphemy. She hopes the Maker can forgive her, even though she isn't worthy.

Beasty barks with joy as they approach the small house. He leaps up, placing his large paws on her chest, and covers her face in slobber as he licks out a hello. Melina laughs, wrapping her arms around the great beast and holding him close. She's grateful for the mabari, for the way he curls up at her feet at night to keep her warm and safe. It's less lonely with him near all warm and soft and snugly.

Usually, he lays curled at her feet but tonight it's like he can sense she needs the extra comfort and lays pressed up against her side. They all lay sleeping in a row on the floor of Genitivi's living room, three worn blankets spread across the lot of them. Melina presses her face against Beasty's neck and lets a few cold tears fall in silence. _Please forgive me.  
_

  
  
~_~_~

The Birth Rock. The memorial Fereldan had erected for Andraste, to recognize Denerim as Her place of birth. Melina stands in front of the large unassuming stone, a prayed etched into its surface. She kneels on the hard, cold dirt and clasps her hands together. Leliana kneels down with her followed by Alistair and Jowan. After a moment's hesitation, Izanami kneels as well though it's only Melina who notices her disdainful expression.

"Maker, though I am but one, I have called in Your Name, and those who come to serve will know Your Glory. I remembered for them. They will see what can be gained, and though we are few against the wind, we are Yours." Melina recites the prayer with a heavy heart, bowing low before the rock and thinking of the mission before them. Andraste's Ashes. It still amazes her that they exist, that she herself might be one of the first people to see the final resting place of their Lady since Her disciples had first fled the Tevinter Imperium all those ages ago.

"May the Maker watch over us," Leliana says, a blissful smile on her face.

"May He watch over us all," Alistair and Jowan both reply in unison. 

The city gates look different now that they're leaving. Before, she had been excited to see Andraste's birth place, the grand capital city of Fereldan. Or at least, it seems grand to her though Leliana had sworn it was a mud pile compared to places like Val Royeaux. Still, it had filled her with joy and wonder to first be here.

Now it fills her with dread to be leaving Jalyn behind and with strangers no less. She tries to take comfort in the fact that they're friends of Maroth but somehow, it doesn't help. All she can think of is how disappointed she looked when Melina left her there.

"Melina?"

She turns to meet Jowan's steady gaze as they march along the Imperial Highway toward the mountains. It seems like so long ago that she had traveled with Jowan to Ostagar. She had been filled with so much anger and hatred toward him but now... Now she just feels tired.

"What is it?" she asks, trying not to let her exhaustion show.

Jowan bites his lip as a bitter wind blows his messy brown hair around. It's starting to get a bit long and she figures they could both probably do with a hair cut and a long bath. 

"What happened? To Jalyn, back at the tower? Was it-" He pauses, glancing at the back of Alistair's head. "Was it blood magic?" He whispers the questions, subconsciously pulling the sleeves of his robes to cover his wrist scars.

Melina sighs. Blood magic. If only it were so simple. Blood magic seems so benign compared to what she did. "No, Jowan, it wasn't blood magic," she replies but her voice doesn't have the same harsh, judging tone she usually takes with him. Instead, she just sounds as tired as she feels and she feels it all the way past her bones.

"Then what was it? I have the right to know," he says, tone firm but also curious. That's right. She remembers now. He was always curious in their classes, always asking questions. Sometimes questions he shouldn't have asked.

_"Are blood mages really... abominations?"_

She glares out at the road, anger boiling hot under the surface at his words. "The right? What right do you have? It's your fault she was ever tranquil," she hisses.

"That was Uldred's doing," he retorts. "We were just kids. We didn't understand and Jalyn didn't want you hurt by association."

"Me? What are you talking about?"

Jowan's cheeks turn red. "Uh- I mean-"

"It's getting late. I think we should make camp," Leliana calls out from behind them. "Besides, I am hungry and I wish to check our map. These cultists did not leave us a very easy path to follow."

Setting up camp takes little time now that they're used to the process and to each other. Alistair and Jowan pound the stakes in for the tents while Melina and Leliana search for firewood. Izanami sits on a log, pretending to knit... something. Maker only knows what a demon would try to knit.

Leliana hums a familiar tune as they work, searching for tiny pieces of wood or brush or anything that will burn easily but slowly. Melina smiles, recognizing it instantly. 

"Andraste's grace, how sweet Her song, that saved a wretch like me," she sings, the Chantry hymn clear as day in her mind. Her voice is off key but still full of faith.

Leliana smiles at her, bright and happy. "I once was lost but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see. 'Twas Her grace that taught my heart to fear and Her grace my fears relieved."

"How precious did Her grace appear the hour I first believed. Through many dangers, toils, and snares we have already come. 'Twas Her grace hath brought us safe thus far and Her grace will lead us home."

Melina takes a deep breath, a true smile on her face for the first time in what feels like forever. "Thank you, Sister. My heart was... disquiet. I feel better now, thanks to you and the song."

"Music lifts my spirit. Andraste's songs always bring me great comfort," Leliana replies. "But I was not always this way," she admits.

It's hard for Melina to picture the lay sister as anything other than what she sees before her now. "I don't think I understand."

Leliana reaches for a small pile of twigs, her red hair falling forward and covering her face. " I... have I ever told you I really like the way you wear your hair?"

"My... Hair?" Melina stares at her through the tangled mess. The shoulder length white curls lazy in a frizzy clump around her chubby face. "Maker's breath, why?"

Leliana purses her lips, tapping them lightly with her index finger. "Hmmm, it suits you. Wild, carefree. As if you have more important things to do than fuss with your hair all day and yet the curls are still so pretty! Why, just imagine if you were in Orlais! We could put creams in your hair to tame the curls a bit, layer them nice and elegant. Nothing too elaborate, no. Simple suits you, I think. Oh and the shoes! Maker but the shoes! A nice pair in pink silk, I think, with elegant embroidery on the front. Ah, I miss the shoes in Orlais. They are so ugly and practical here."

Melina tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear. She looks down at her worn leather boots. They're lined with fur and do a solid job of keeping her feet warm and dry but she must admit, they're not very pretty. "Silk shoes don't sound very comfortable," she replies. "I don't think the Maker would approve of someone like me wearing something so fine and nice."

"What is meant 'someone like you'?" Leliana asks, frowning as she watches Melina pull some dead bush weed up from the ground.

The dry, brittle pieces will make excellent starter for the fire tonight.

"I'm a mage," Melina says simply. "I don't belong in a world of fancy shoes and parties and such. When the war is over, should the Maker deem me worthy of surviving, I will return home to Kinloch Hold to face the consequences of my sins."

Leliana drops the wood she's holding and walks over to Melina. "No, don't say that. It's not true. You deserve to live, just like anyone else," she says, placing her hand on Melina's cheek. "It must be a wonderful thing, to be able to weave spells."

Melina shakes her head. "The Chantry teaches us it is a sin, and one we must repent for."

"Oh, what do they know? They are just jealous. The Maker gives you magic; you must use it. You do it so effortlessly. It's like breathing for you. I wish I had such talent."

Izanami's golden eyes and blue skin are vivid in her mind as she slowly backs away from Leliana. "Come on, we should hurry and get back to others before they wonder where we are."

~*~*~

The sun bounces off the bright white snow, reflecting back a blinding light as a bitter cold wind stings her eyes. She pulls her cloak tight around her head, trying to huddle against the cold. At first, the snow had seemed so beautiful. She'd never seen anything like it. Bright, white, and so pure the field of snow had seemed to stretch on forever until it reached the distant mountains. Now, hours later, and her boots are soaked through to the toes and even her very bones feel cold. Snow would be better from inside a warm house, she thinks. 

"I think we are lost," Leliana says. "This sign says we are near Honnleath. That is a village belong to the Arl of Redcliffe. We need to be a bit more west and north to find this Haven. Apparently, it is hidden deep within the mountains, high up near the peaks.

Honnleath? Something about the name sparks a memory. Where had she heard this before?

_Melina stands outside the study room her and Cullen always use for chess practice. He's there, inside, waiting patiently. She enters the room, feet brushing against the floor as she shuffles awkwardly. "Hello, Cullen," she says, smiling at him._

_ He smiles back, shy and soft. "Mellie," he says, and his voice warms her from the inside out. "I- I wanted to show you something," he says, cheeks burning red. _

_ He stares at her a moment before clearing his throat. "I, uh, prob-probably shouldn't be sharing this with you," he admits. "Are you sure it's alright?" She nods her head, a soft smile settling itself on her lips as he continues. "I know it doesn't look like much..." he says, holding out a small silver coin embossed with the face of Andraste on it.  _

_She takes it gently, turning it over in her hand. She looks up into his eyes when he starts to speak again. "Templars aren't supposed to have worldly possessions. Our... faith should to see us through. But m-my brother gave it to me back in Honnleath, before I came here."_

_A brother? He's telling her about his family? Her heart swells at his words, at how much he must trust her to tell her these things. "I promise not to tell," she whispers, leaning forward and grabbing his hand._

_ "I know it's foolish of me, but I'm glad I've met you, Mellie," he says. Their faces are so close, she can see the dark brown specks in his golden eyes and the tiny freckles on his nose.  _

_She wets her lips, heart fluttering like mad. "So am I," she whispers. His eyes seem to darken as he leans forward, breath warm against her lips._

_ "Maker preserve me," he breathes, capturing her mouth with his. It's a soft kiss, a sweet caress, as he holds her hand in the soft candlelight. His lips are soft, warm, and he smells of sandalwood.  He pulls back, looking down at her, brow furrowed and a blush reddening his cheeks. "We shouldn't do this," he says. _

_She nods her head. I know," she replies. "I'm sorry."_

_ He caresses her cheek with one hand, settling his forehead against hers. "It's too dangerous for you," he continues. "I'd lose my post but you-" he shudders. _

_She nudges his nose with her own. "Wynne says they can't afford to break me," she says, still not really sure what those words mean, but praying they bring him some measure of comfort. "Because I'm a Healer."_

_ He sighs, his breath hot against her skin. "Still... I'm supposed to protect you. Like this I can barely thi-think, let alone protect you, Mellie. A Templar's duty is never to get too close to the mages we watch over." _

_ She bites her lip, caught between uncertainty and pleasure. She knows he's right, that they shouldn't do this. It's a sin, she knows it, but still.... The way she feels when he looks at her, as if she were the most beautiful thing he's ever seen... "I'm sorry," she says, not knowing what else to say, but feeling as if she should apologize for tempting him from his duty. _

_His hand still cups her cheek as he sighs again, finally pulling back. "Please, I'm the on-one who's sorry, Mellie. Please, forgive me."_

How had she forgotten that moment? Perhaps it's too painful, especially now that Cullen's feelings are no longer warm or kind toward her. She remembers Wynne telling her to be careful because love is fleeting no matter how passionate it feels in the moment. Looking back, she can't help but wonder if Wynne was speaking from experience, because of the child she saw in her memory. She also can't help but to think that maybe Wynne was right again. She had felt so strongly for Cullen when they were both in the tower but now?

She glances over at Alistair. Now she doesn't know what she feels. She wants to protect them both, she knows that much for certain. 

"Please, save me!" 

A dwarf in plain but warm clothing comes running up to them, pulling Melina from her thoughts. "Maker, help me!"

The rotting corruption of the darkspawn reaches her seconds before the sight of the filthy creatures does. She flings a paralyze glyph on the ground, holding a few in place before they can kill the dwarven man. Between the five of them, they make short work of the small band of spawn.

"Are you alright, Ser?" Melina asks, peering at the dwarf and searching for wounds. She's not sure if her healing magic would work on a dwarf or not, but she's willing to try if he needs it. Thankfully, he looks free of any major wounds.

"Thank the Maker for you lot," he replies, tone gruff. "Went looking for my blasted donkey and found a village full of damn darkspawn instead." 

"Do you mean Honnleath?" Jowan asks. "We should check for other survivors, then."

Leliana nods in agreement. "Yes, and then we can camp there for the night while I get my bearings straight. I need to find a clear path to lead us to Haven."

Izanami scoffs, looking around at the cluttered piles of darkspawn corpses. "This place has magic in it, be watchful," she replies, eyes narrowing as she stares toward Honnleath. 

The dwarf hesitates a moment before grabbing a long, thin piece of stone from his pack. "Here, take this. A thank you for saving my hide back there."

Melina exchanges a bewildered look with Alistair before grabbing the object. "Pardon, sir, but what is this?"

"Control rod. For a golem. Go on, wake it up. Wave it at the giant and say 'Dulen harn' and it'll wake right up."

A.... Golem? A real, true golem? Her mind reels at the thought.

The golem stands in the center of the village, arms outstretched toward the sky. Birdseed litters the ground and a small, overturned picnic basket lays at its feet.

Jowan gulps nervously as he stares up at the large being. "Is it smart to wake it? What if it it tries to smash us to little bits or something?"

"Don't worry, Mels. I'll smash it back if it tries to hurt you," Alistair says, smiling at her. 

Melina returns the smile, grateful that he's with her. "I should at least try, right? It must be horrible to be stuck like that."

She takes a deep breath. "Uh- Du- dulen harn?" Melina says, waving the control rod at the creature.

The ground trembles beneath their feet. Tiny pieces of rock fall from the statue. It shakes, a fierce growl emitting from it and echoing across the small village courtyard. 

The golem sighs as it looks around. "I knew the day would come when someone would find the control rod. And of course it would be another mage. It is, isn't it? Yes, it is. Just my luck."

Melina drops a curtsy, both out of respect and habit. "Uh, hello, Ser- Um, I'm sorry, but I don't know your name?"

The golem simply stares at her a moment. "Did... Did it just bow at me? How strange it is. In my experience, mages bow to no one." The golem sighs again. "It can call me Shale, if it must."

_It??_

"Um. Yes. Well, Ser Shale, uh...." She shifts awkwardly as she stares up into the Golem's eyes. She takes a deep breath, steeling her nerves. "We're on a mission to defeat the Blight and could very much use your help, if you're willing," she says, words coming out in a tumbling rush.

Shale raises a stone eyebrow. "Is it... _asking_ me? It has the control rod. It can demand me to do whatever it likes."

Melina frowns. "I would rather not," she replies. "You are free to make whatever choices you want, Shale."

"Hmmm, how odd. It has my control and yet... Command me to do something, Mage."

She blinks up at Shale. "I.... Uh....." She glances over at Izanami. "Give a _really_ tight hug to Wynne."

Izanami let out a rude sounding snort. "Try me, Golem," she mutters.

"It might break her," Jowan whispers in her ear. "Be careful. I know you admire Wynne but she _is_ getting older."

Melina glares but doesn't reply, just stares up at Shale, waiting. 

"Strange. It gave an order. It has the control rod. Yet, I feel no compulsion to comply. How very strange," Shale says.

Alistair grunts at the comment. "Yeah? We get that a lot," he grumbles.

Melina quirks an eyebrow in his direction. "What, nobody following our orders or being called strange?"

"Both," Alistair and Jowan both reply in unison, causing Melina to laugh in response.

"Well, now you're even more free to make your own choices, Shale. What do you want to do?" Melina asks.

The large golem seems to ponder the question for a moment. "I will follow it, for now. I have nothing better to do and I have no purpose."

"Great, just what we need to bring to a gathering of cultists. A golem," Jowan gripes. "I'm sure this will go spectacularly." 

"Oh, how fun! I did think golems would be quite a bit larger, yes?" Leliana peers up at Shale. "You are awfully short for a golem."

"Quiet, human," Shale grumbles. "Or I'll feed it to the pigeons."

Melina looks around at the empty village. "Where is everyone?" she wonders aloud.

Izanami places a hand on her shoulder, making her skin crawl with repulsion. "They are hiding, child." She points a finger toward an old house. "They are in there, most likely in the cellar. We should be cautious, however. That is where I sense... magic."

Jowan pulls his cloak tight around himself. "Maybe we shouldn't go then?"

"Coward," Izanami whispers, too low for the others to hear. "We must, child. The local people might know a path to the deeper part of the mountains."

Alistair raises an eyebrow at her. "Also, my darkspawn senses are all a-tingle. There's more of the wretched beasts down there. We can't leave these people to be eaten or... or... whatever it is the darkspawn want with them."

"How is it you weren't able to sense them earlier when we first arrived?" Leliana asks, a scowl on her heart shaped face.

He frowns at her question. "I'm still new at this, okay? I can't always sense them easily, and it takes me a minute to figure out if what I'm sensing is a darkspawn or just a tainted bit of land or wild animal. It's not like it's an exact science with a detailed handbook Duncan left for me," he replies.

She shrugs her thin shoulders. "If you say so," she says. "Come then, we have darkspawn to slay, yes? How exciting!"

Turns out, killing darkspawn isn't actually very exciting. Just an endless horde of the twisted creatures mingled in with random shades. But they all fall easily enough, especially once the golem joins in. Melina watches with a little bit of awe and fear mingled together as Shale's giant fists turn darkspawn after darkspawn into nothing more than a mess of tainted flesh and blood on the ground.

Research notes and letters lay scattered about and are all signed with the name "Wilhelm". She recognizes the name from her studies. Mages often live solitary lives in the circles but on occasion there have been a few mage heroes in Thedas. 

Wilhelm had been Jalyn's favorite. He was a mage who fought in the war against Orlais. He was rumored to be incredibly powerful and a good friend of the late King Maric. So beloved was he for his actions during the war that he was granted a home outside of the circle. There he married and had a son and raised a family and lived the life every mage dreams of. He had even been rumored to have a pet golem that was twenty feet tall and could shoot lightening bolts from its eyes.

Melina looks over at Shale. Well, the golem part is true anyway.

"Oh thank the Maker! Finally, the King has sent his soldiers to rescue us!"

There's a large group of villagers standing behind some beams of wood. One in particular wears clothes slightly fancier than the rest.

Melina's eyes flicker toward Alistair briefly. "I'm sorry, Ser. But King Cailen is dead. I've come with a Grey Warden on a mission."

The young man narrows his eyes as Shale stomps into the room. "You... You activated that thing," he says, voice low and dark. "That thing murdered my father!"

She can feel the color leaving her face at his words. Murder?

Izanami scoffs. "You needn't worry about us, child," she says. "If it tries anything, we'll simply destroy it."

"The Elder Mage will try and fail," Shale rumbles back.

"Enough, both of you," Melina says with a sigh. She cuts Izanami a cold glare before continuing. "The darkspawn are gone. You should all be safe now. If you could spare a moment, we do have some questions about the paths into the mountain."

The man hesitates a moment before waving his hand at something Melina can't see. A sheer wave shimmers momentarily before collapsing. A barrier spell? Is this young man... an apostate? She bites her lip. She has no room to judge. Not now. Maybe she never did.

"My name is Matthias. I will answer your questions, but you have to do something for me first."

Jowan frowns as he inspects the area the villagers had been hiding, as if he's looking for some sort of mechanism that might have held the barrier up. "Why is it, everywhere we go, somebody always asks for something? Is the Blight not enough?" he grumbles, running his hand along the wooden beams. 

"You know, one good thing about the blight is how it brings people together," Alistair quips. 

"I don't care about a stupid blight! My daughter, my little butterfly! She's run off. She was so scared because of the darkspawn and she ran into my father's old cellars. He never let us down there. It's where he used to run his magical experiments before he was murdered," Matthias says, wringing his hands and staring down the long, narrow tunnel. "Please, you have to find her."

Magical experiments... Maker's breath. She tries not to show her emotions right now but her head is spinning at the implications. A mage performing unsanctioned experiments in the middle of nowhere with no templars around? It was a recipe for disaster. It would not surprise Melina in the least bit if the foolish man had caused Shale to... malfunction with his experiments. They didn't seem the murderous type, just a bit sarcastic.

"We'll find your daughter," Melina replies, squaring her shoulders. "And whatever else your father was hiding down there."

"Or who," Izanami whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the original in game merchant for Shale's DLC is human. Thedas needs more dwarves. *shrugs*


	24. Chapter 24

"I want to help."

Tiny pieces of splintered wood digs into Jalyn's hands as she glides the broom across the floor, carefully pushing the dirt toward the door.

"I do not have a purpose. I am tranquil. I only want to help and be useful."

She continues sweeping as Sera sits on the window ledge, precariously balancing on the wooden edge. She tips and sways, and Jalyn's certain she's going to fall eventually and that will be the end of her newest keeper.

Sera leans back, putting half her torso out the window. "Everybody can be useful," she replies. "Doesn't matter how little you are."

"She left me behind," Jalyn whispers. "How can I be useful to her here?"

"She? Oh you mean Snowy! Right pretty one she is, yeah? Rawr. Anyway, I bet you can still help her. Oh, I have an idea! This will be fun!" And with that she tumbles out the window, giggling as she falls.

Jalyn stands there, frozen. Did she... Is she dead? She cautiously walks over to the window and looks out to see Sera hanging from a piece of brick jutting out from the side of the tavern. She lets go and falls a little further, this time reaching the ground and landing square on her feet. Like a cat.

Jalyn blinks in the bright sun. "You could have died."

Sera grins. "What? It feels like flying, innit right Spooks? Anyway, don't worry!"

Spooks? Jalyn's lips turn down in the barest hint of a frown. "My name is Jalyn. I do not feel worry."

Sera scratches the side of her head. "You don't? What do ya feel then? Gotta feel somethin', innit right?"

Jalyn stares out at the crowd of people wandering the alleyway. "Nothing."

"Well that's no fun! Doesn't sound true, either. Doesn't matter. You stay here, right, and I'll be back. Just you wait, yeah?"

Jalyn looks around the cluttered room, taking in the mess. She should at least clean while she waits. She grabs the broom again, ready to work. To do something. Anything. Emotions keep returning to her in waves, flickering like bright flashes of light in her head. One minute she's full of every emotion she's ever felt and then there's nothing, the crushing sound of silence in her mind. Back and forth, on and off. The effect is maddening and Jalyn worries she might be losing whatever is left of her mind.

She can hear the sound of running feet pounding up the stairs a moment before Sera bursts through the door. "Hide!" she says with a grin, sweat pouring down her face. "Over 'ere, quick!"

She shoves her into a slightly broken wardrobe, her hand pressed tight against Jalyn's mouth as she tries not to giggle. Jalyn can hear thundering footsteps enter the room. 

"Where did that little knife-eared rat go?"

"Bill, I have pudding in my ears!"

"Stop whining, Tim. Or you'll get worse."

"But she hit me in the face! With a pie!"

"I said shut it!"

There's the faint sound of shoes scrapping against the wood floor and Sera's breath hot on her cheek. Her heart is pounding beneath her chest. She doesn't understand anything that's happening. 

After a few minutes, Sera shoves her out of the cabinet before tumbling out herself. She rolls across the floor, laughter exploding from her lips. "Spooks, ya should'a seen their faces! I was all 'I want this' and they were like 'no! grrrr' so I was like 'how about a pie to the face then yeah' and then they were all 'grrrr I'll kill you!' and then there was the runnin'!" Sera sighs, a happy smile on her face. "Runnin' makes you really feel alive, doesn't it?"

Faint memories of running through the alienage with the other kids whisper through her mind. Her heart pounding so fast, muscles burning in her legs but she doesn't care, nothing matters but the feeling of the wind on her skin as she races around. Freedom. Even when she had nothing, at least she had that.

Slow trickles of anger flicker under the surface. Memories that once felt distant, out of reach, now brush against her. She feels raw, open, like something's scraped against her mind. 

She doesn't like it.

"I thought you said you had an idea," Jalyn reminds the girl. She doesn't want to remember. Not yet. It's too much. 

"Right! Are you ready?" Sera swings herself up into a sitting position, legs crossed and hands on her knees as she wobbles in place. "So, that Loghain right? Pig-eared noble bastard with his 'wardens are evil grrr rawwrrrr I'll smash them!' Your girl wants to take him down, right? To help that warden fellow she fancies? Yeah, so we have to hit 'em where it really hurts, right, so we punch up right into his dangly money bags!"

She sits there, a self satisfied smile on her face. Jalyn blinks, trying to understand the strange, random jumble of words that made a sentence. Sort of. "You... want to steal from him?"

Sera's grins widens. "His crown," she replies, drawing out the word. "Pointy shiny things are important to the assbags up there. The pointier and shinier, the better, so we take it and he'll be sad."

"I think Warden Alistair wants him dead rather than sad," Jalyn replies.

Sera shrugs. "You want to help, or do the whole thing for them?"

"Help."

"Good," Sera replies with a grin. "But that weird thing on yer head? Needs to go. Can't be sneaky sneaky with a giant mage tattoo on your forehead, yeah?"

"It is not a tattoo and I can't remove it," Jalyn says, brushing her fingertips against the jagged edges of the brand. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes at night, she can feel the burning pain as they branded lyrium into her very skin, burning her flesh and searing her mind.

Sera brings out a pair of scissors from Maker knows where. "You can hide anything, Spooks, if ya really want to. Slim will be here soon with a present for ya," she replies, getting to her feet.

"You- You can't cut it off!" Jalyn says, clasping a hand over her forehead in fear. Panic makes her heart flutter suddenly in her throat.

Sera bursts out laughing. "What? Cut it off? Spooks, you're weirder than me," she replies. "Just snip snip snip the pretty red parts, snip snip!"

Snip the... Oh. "You are going to cut my hair." Jalyn drops her hand back to her side. "That is agreeable."

The sound of the scissors is strangely relaxing. She had expected Sera's hands to be rough. Instead, they slide through her long strands of cinnamon red hair with a gentleness Jalyn had not felt since her mother used to do her hair. It feels odd. to lose her hair like this. It was a long, heavy weight on her head for so long. Now her head feels suddenly light. Sera holds up a small mirror with crack in the corner. Jalyn hesitates before grabbing it and looking at herself.

Her hair is short. Whereas before it had reached her bottom, now it sits level with her chin in surprisingly smooth layers. Her bangs are short, as well, covering her forehead in a sweeping angle. It hides the tranquil brand well, though a good breeze might still uncover her secret. 

Slim enters the room, a great big beaming smile on his face. He has a large jar full of bright colored candies under one arm and a gray knit hat in his hand. "Oiy, Sera, found w'at yer lookin' fer. I think. Found some snacks, too. Thought our guest might liken to something sweet."

Something cold and wet falls down Jalyn's cheeks, startling her. Slowly, she brings her fingertips to her face, brushing against the trials of moisture. 

Tears? _Am I crying?_

"Whatsit? Ya alright, yeah?" Slim asks, looking at her in concern.

Instead of answering, she looks up at Sera. "Why do you call me Spooks?"

Sera grins, all mischievous and lopsided. "Cuz you're real quiet, right, an' nobody knows until you're there. An' then it's boom! You're just there! Real spooky."

"I have disturbed you with my quietness. I will try to make more noise in the future," Jalyn replies, ignoring the feeling of her tears drying on her cheeks.

"Don't have to. More fun this way!" Sera tilts her head a bit as she looks at Jalyn. "Just be yourself, Spooks. Nobody 'ere is going to judge ya for it."

Herself? "I- I don't know who that is," she replies. She looks down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. What is "herself"?

Before tranquility, she had been angry. It had been her primary motivator. When Aneirin had disappeared, and nobody would tell her where he had went, anger was right there pushing her to try escaping, too. She had almost made it. Her and Anders made the plan in secret, to jump into the lake through a lose bar in one of the upper windows. If she had just gone first, the templars might not have caught her. When the Knight Commander had her punished for breaking the rules with twenty lashings, anger had pushed her to break more rules by sleeping with Jowan.

After she was branded, obedience became her identity. Obey the senior mages requests for more enchantments. Obey Owain's orders to log the stockroom. Obey the templars when they came to her room at night. Obey the healer mages when they heal the tears and scars and tell her not to speak a word. Obey, obey, obey. 

What is she, without that? 

Sera exchanges a glance with Slim. "Best way to figure that out is by not figurin' it out," Sera says, twirling the scissors between her fingers. "Right? Come on, Spooks. We've got a crown to steal!"

~*~*~

Her legs burn as she races to keep up with Sera, the Teyrn's crown wrapped securely in her pack. The air smells like fish and old garbage. The sound of Sera's giggling sounds like music in the night air. A smile curves the edges of Jalyn's lips as she grips her hat tight over head. 

"Oiy! Bloody knife-ears, you get back here with that!"

'The guards will cut off your ears, we will!"

Laughter bursts from her lips in a sudden explosion as they continue running through the backalleys. Her feet are covered in mud and if the guards catch her, especially her, she'll be executed. Everything about what she's doing now screams 'reckless' and 'foolish'. There is no sense of safety here.

Suddenly Serra pulls her into a run down old building. She presses a finger against Jalyn's lips and they wait with baited breath as the guards pass by.

"You okay? Feeling alright, Spooks?"

Jalyn nods as she tries to catch her breath. "Running makes you feel really alive, doesn't it?"

Sera giggles. "Old stuffed shirt noble up in his fancy stuffed castle is going to be angry when finds out." She giggles again. "Let's go get drunk and then we'll steal somebody's breeches!"

She tilts her head. "I don't think I _can_ get drunk."

"Only one way to find out, yeah?" Sera replies with a crooked smile.

~*~*~

Exhaustion claws at her mind as she tumbles into bed. There's too much uncertainty surrounding her... condition to risk a magical explosion of some sort from drinking. Her eyelids feel like lead as she lets them fall, quickly drifting off to sleep.

The swirling, shifting colors of the fade form around her. Everything feels foggy, like a cloud surrounds her mind. What was she doing second ago?

She sees a dark haired woman with blue skin in the distance, running in between strange pillars.

"Shem? That you?"

She runs after the woman, trying desperately to catch up. Every time she thinks she's close, the woman moves farther away again.

"Blast, stop it, will ya? I just want to talk!" Jalyn frowns. "Where are you going? Where are we?"

The scene fades away, morphing into somewhere else.

The dirt floor is cold beneath her butt. Her mother runs a broken comb through her tangled strands and Jalyn winces each time the jagged teeth pull her hair. The motion stops abruptly as Deirdre gets to her feet. The woman slowly shuffles over to the window. She presses one hand against the dirty pane and stares, unblinking.

"Momma?" Jalyn tugs on the sleeve of he mother's dress. "Momma!"

Deirdre ignore her, still staring out the window. Snow covers the ground in thick blankets.

"Momma, I'm cold," Jalyn says, sticking her thumb in her mouth. "Whens Papa comin' home?"

Deirdre's body begins to tremble. It's been a month since Papa left to get more food. "I want my Papa," Jalyn pouts.

"Ar lath ma, vhenan. Ir abelas," Deirdre whispers, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Jalyn frowns. Her mother doesn't speak the dalish language very much. Only when she's singing, or when she's cursing at Papa. 

"Momma? Papa isn't coming back, is he?" Jalyn asks, lower lips wobbling. 

Deirdre spins around, her hand landing hard against Jalyn's cheek. "Ma harel, da’len!"

Tears spring to her eyes. Her mother's never hit her before, not even when she snuck out of bed to steal a piece of Papa's birthday cake last year.

She turns back to the window, as if it never happened, and continues staring without a word, despite Jalyn's cries. She doesn't leave the window for days, just stares and stares as if she's waiting for someone. Jalyn eats pieces of stale bread and other crumbs she can find in the kitchen. Finally, she finds an apple. It's dull and bruised and dirty but it still smells good. She brings it to her mother with a happy smile.

"Momma! I brought you food!"

Deirdre doesn't even look at the apple. Jalyn grabs her hand and pulls. Her skin feels ice cold. "Momma? Momma, you have to eat. I brought ya yer favourite, momma! See?"

 **"** Var lath vir suledin," Deirdre whispers, her lips tinged a pale shade of blue. She lets out a slow, ragged breath as her eyes flutter close. "Hamin."

"Momma?" Jalyn gently sets the apple in her lap. Maybe she'll eat it later. Maybe, if Jalyn is really really god, momma will wake up and play with her again. She just has to be really good and follow all her momma's rules. That means she has to do her chores no complaining!

She sweeps the floor and puts away all her toys. She dusts and polishes all the utensils until they're shiny. She scrubs the floors until her fingertips are raw and bleeding. But when she's done, momma still hasn't woken up and a strange smell has started to fill the house. 

She grabs her mother's hand but its cold and hard and doesn't feel like a hand anymore. Jalyn jerks away and trips over her dirty, torn dress. "Momma?"

Maybe if she can find Papa, Momma will talk to her again. She'll smile and it'll light up her eyes like it always does when Papa comes home from work. She'll dance and sing and make them all something nice to eat. Jalyn's belly grumbles hungrily at the thought of stew. She grabs her cloak and wraps it tight around her shoulders, just like Papa taught her. She puts on her boots, even though there's a hole in the toe.

The winter snow is bitter cold and wet on her feet, soaking her to the bones in no time. She shivers against the wind. Where can Papa be? Maybe he went to the docks to look for work again. She heads toward the gates where a large human stands. His beard is pitch black and his eyes are a light blue. He stares down at her with a gruff look on his face.

"Eh? What's this? Where ya going, half pint? You lot can't leave the alienage." 

She stares up at him, hesitant. Papa always said not to talk to humans unless you have to. She thinks of her mother, waiting for them back home. "I have ta find my papa," she says, her entire body numb with cold.

His expression shifts to something softer. He squats down next to her, an impressive feat clad in armor. "What's your name, little half pint?"

"Jalyn Surana," she mumbles as he wraps his cloak around her. 

"My name's Captain Rogers," he replies, ruffling her hair. "Now, why isn't your momma out here with you? She lost too?" He teases.

"She's sleepin," Jalyn says. "She's really cold and won't wake up. If I find Papa, then her heart will be so full of happiness that it'll warm her right up. If I find Papa, she'll wake up again."

She doesn't understand the human's facial expression. Is he mad at her? "How long has she been sleeping?" he asks and there's something funny about his voice.

She shrugs. Time blurs together. "I need to find Papa," she replies instead, sticking out her chin in stubbornness. 

Captain Rogers takes her tiny hand in his large gloved on. "Come on, half pint. We need to go see your mom."

Jalyn sniffs as they walk. "Momma's not gonna wake up, is she?" she asks, voice small and afraid.

Captain Rogers clenches his jaw. "No, little one. I don't think she will," he whispers.

"Not even if I'm really good?"

"Half pint..."

She yanks her hand from him. "I can be good! I can! I'll do all ta cleaning an I'll never sneak out of bed past bedtime! I'll be good, I promise!"

She runs away from him, as fast as her legs can go in the cold and snow. She burst though her front door, breath coming in short pants. 

"Momma! Wake up, please! I'll be good! I won't make you sad ever, please wake up!' She cries, kneeling down in front of her mother.

The Captain follows her, grimacing at the smell. "Jalyn-"

"NO!" She screams the word, long and loud and broken. "Momma's just sad because Papa isn't here. But I can make her happy. I can! I can make her happy, too, just like Papa."

The human kneels down, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes, no matter how much we love someone, we can't fix them," he says.

She looks at her mother's old, unmoving form. "But why? Doesn't momma love me, too?"

"I-" The Captain stares blankly for a few moments before sighing. "I'm sure she loved you as much as she could, half pint."

Jalyn wipes the snot from her lip. "Now I's got nowhere to go. I don't want ta be alone."

She looks over the Captain's shoulder and sees a woman watching her. Her skin is sky blue and her eyes blaze golden fire and with that the dream shatters and she wakes up in her bed with Sera snoring loudly in the corner.

What in the Maker's name had that been about? She lays back down, heart pounding. She hadn't thought about her mother's death in years. Why now? And who was that woman? Her skin... so blue, like death...

_Momma?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ar lath ma, vhenan. Ir abelas- "I love you, my heart. I'm sorry"
> 
> Ma harel, da’len- "You lie child!"
> 
> Var lath vir suledin- "our love shall endure"
> 
> Hamin- "rest"


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhyolite is pronounced rai·ow·lait. Rhy-rhy is pronounced "rai-rai". 
> 
> My deepest apologies for the delay to anyone who's reading this story. I wrote the opening- twice- and then forgot to save it which kind of crushed my flow and then with the election stress and work related stuff going on (shit ton of overtime T_T including ten days in a row of 12+ hour shifts) and everything... I just needed a break, I'm sorry. But, I'm back in the game and ready to continue! 
> 
> Also, I've created this page which has some artwork I've created with the characters from my BDHC. Please feel free to take a look if you want! My art is very novice / beginner compared to other DA fan artists but it's still decent enough to give you an idea as to what my babies look like and shows a few scenes from my stories. Plus, it's fun for me. I have a lot of art but I'm only posting stuff that doesn't have spoilers from unreleased The Way of Thedas content. https://www.deviantart.com/thelynnmonster

"Ready, Peridotite?"

The large qunari just grunts, squinting down the long tunnel.

Brosca grins, rolling her shoulders and holding a small, strange... something or other. All Maroth knows is that it's supposed to explode. Brosca lights the tip of it with her match and hands it to the giant.

"Now!"

He launches the object down the tunnel, the muscles in his much longer arms rippling as he does. Maroth watches as the thing spins, the lit wick casting shadows on the wall. Before it lands, it explodes in midair. Screaming voices pierce the air as the smell of burning hair fills the room, making Maroth gag with unwanted memories.

"I hate this plan," he grumbles, covering his nose. "Next time the qunari can throw Brosca down the friggin' tunnel."

Brosca chuckles. "Dwarf tossin' a sport you surfacers like to play? Ain't happenin' down here, friend."

Daveth groans, running a hand down his face. "We do _not_ need that sort of chaos," he replies. "Let's go."

"Yer no fun," Maroth replies with a grunt.

The fighting is chaotic as Maroth struggles with fighting in a small, tight space. The dwarves don't seem to share his problem as they duck and tumble around him with ease. He misses open air and sunshine and thinks of the smell of sweet grass and dirt as he crouches over, trying to make his body smaller. 

They follow Brosca down the narrow tunnels after the battle is over, keeping to the shadows as much as possible with a giant lumbering around with them. He watches as she carefully disarms each trap they come upon, her nimble fingers moving so fast that he can't quite grasp how she's doing it. Finally, after what seems like forever, they come across a small opening. It's completely empty save for a strange, large creature tied to the wall. Maroth walks to the ledge and glances down toward the lava flowing beneath them and shivers. 

He can't wait to leave Orzammar.

The beast makes a low keening sound when it sees Brosca, struggling against the chain. She rushes over to it and grabs it by the head, gently stroking the side of its face. 

"Shhh, Rhyolite, shhh," she whispers, brows furrowed together in a tight line. "Rhy-Rhy, ya alright, don't worry none. Gerdie's here, right? Ya not alone now," she coos.

He watches with eyebrows raised as she checks the beast over for wounds or injuries. She glances at him before bending down and unlocking the chain with a piece of old bone in her pocket.

"W'at is that thing?" he asks, lip curling as it waddles over to him.

" _He_ ," Brosca replies, eyes narrowing, "is a bronto. Good in a fight. Strong. **Mine**. Raised him since he was tiny, didn't I? Found him in the Deep Roads, scavenging for stuff. Couldn't leave him alone. Mine now. I'm his, too. We're a team. And that nug humping bitch can't have him, got it?"

Nug hump- Ah. Jarvia.

He shrugs, backing away from the thing. "No skin off my nose, but it's a bit ugly if ya askin' me. W'at's yer deal with this Jarvia, anyway?"

Daveth pulls a bit of dried meat from his pocket and gives it to the beast, scratching it round the ears as it chews. "Not to pry, but it does seem personal for ya," he adds.

Brosca squares her shoulders, refusing to look at them as they continue along the narrow tunnels. The bronto lumbers behind them, ruining any attempt at subtly or sneaking.

They walk in silence for awhile, stopping only to listen for sounds of Jarvia or her henchmen. The silence makes time seem to stretch on and on and Maroth begins to wonder if they'll ever find what they're looking for.

"She murdered my mother," Brosca finally replies.

Her face has turned a dark red, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. Maroth lets her words sink in as he exchanges a worried look with Daveth. He still remembers the rage and anger he felt when his da told him his ma had been killed by the shems. 

He can't remember much about Adaia now. He was only ten when she died. But the smell of pea soup still reminds him of her. And sometimes, when he's just waking up from sleep, he can swear he can still hear her laughter. 

He had forgotten just how much he misses her.

"Right, so yer 'ere fer revenge then, innit?" Maroth asks, scratching his nose.

Gerdie grins and the sight is unsettling in the shadows. "Nah. I'm here for my sister. Killin' that bitch is just a bonus, isn't that right? Would'a just left her alone, if not for Rica."

The only sound they hear for awhile is the sound of the bronto grunting behind them as it walks. He watches with amazement as the qunari tries to subtly feed it bits of cookie from his pocket, though where the giant found cookies is beyond him. He sets a mental reminder to himself to ask later. He hopes the giant won't take his head for it.

Brosca stops them just before they reach a closed door. Her eyes are narrowed in determined concentration. "This is where Jarvia will be. Watchit. She's a snake."

They slip through the door, just the four of them plus the bronto, and Maroth shivers in fear. The room is filled with about a dozen or so dwarves with various scars and tattoos covering their faces. In the center, one stands out. Her armor is nicer than the rest, less rusted and better metals. Her short brown hair falls in braids around her head, tiny finger bones woven throughout as some sort of macabre hair bobble. He figures that one must be Jarvia.

The woman pulls one of her braids forward, spinning the set of five finger bones and hair. "Do ya like my newest addition, Brosca?"

Brosca grabs her daggers, eyes blazing with angry. "I don't give a fuck about ya hair, Jarvia. Are ya gonna talk or fight, duster?"

Jarvia grins but it's a cold, emotionless smile. "Now that hurts me feelings, it does. I wore these special just for ya. Thought ya might want to say goodbye to yer mum all nice and proper like."

Maroth's skin goes ice cold as the realization hits him. Brosca's mother.... _Those were her mother's finger bones._ His stomach churns at the thought and he struggles not to throw up on the stone floor. 

There's a low, guttural growl as Brosca crouches lower, body poised ready to leap. Her deep blue eyes are filled with a rage so deep not even Maroth understands it. 

"I'll slit ya open like a nug and bathe in ya entrails, ya fuckin' bitch," she says, voice dangerously low.

Jarvia laughs in response, the sound echoing off the walls. "Now, now, Brosca. Remember ya place, duster. You're in front of ya betters and ya didn't even bring me a gift," she replies, faking a pout. "Don't much matter, cuz I got ya one anyway."

There's a blur of motion on his left and a scream as Brosca falls, blood staining the ground. Leske walks out from the shadows, daggers dripping crimson droplets. He looks down at Brosca's corpse, his face twisted in an odd expression. "Sorry, salroka," he whispers. "I wish-"

But he doesn't finish the sentence, shaking his head and walking over to stand next to Jarvia. She pats him on the head, a slow grin spreading across her face. "Good boy, Leske," she almost purrs.

His expression is sour as he glares out across the room, almost daring anyone to say anything.

Maroth watches as Sten kneels down, pressing his fingers against the dwarf's throat to check her pulse. His brow is furrowed in an angrier way than usual, one hand clenched at his side. _He murdered an entire family..._ Maroth shivers, the hairs on the back of his neck on edge. The bronto lets out a high pitched whining sound as it paws at the ground, gently nudging Brosca's limp hand with its nose.

 _Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck._ They are completely fucked and outnumbered and Maroth wants to run. He doesn't belong here. He shouldn't have offered to help the wardens. If he turns back now, he can probably outrun the dwarves through the narrow tunnels. If he stays, he'll die. Every bone in his body is screaming at him to run away, flee the fighting and danger and chaos. He can feel his legs moving on their own, a few steps back toward the door. He glances over to his left and freezes.

Daveth's face is pale and gaunt as he looks out at the group of enemies. His brow is furrowed in determination, hand already gripping his bow. "This ends now, Jarvia," he says. "The Wardens never back down from a fight, not durin' a Blight."

_He... He can't possibly think they'll win, can he? They're outnumbered four to one... Even with the giant on their side.... they can't win, can they?_

Maroth continues inching backward toward the door, shame making him look away from Daveth. He's a coward, it's true, but at least he'll be an alive coward.

A sudden pain shooting up his leg causes him to scream out in pain as a small claw trap grips his ankle. He looks down in horror as blood pours across the floor, spilling to mix and mingle with Brosca's.

Daveth looks back at him, one eyebrow raised in confusion. 

Maroth sees the dagger flying toward him before he can react but it doesn't matter; he's trapped and can't dodge. It whizzes toward him and Maroth braces for the impact, cold fear running down his spine.

But the dagger never reaches him. All he can see is Daveth's back suddenly in front of him as the man grunts in pain. Did he.... take the hit for him? More shame washes over him as he realizes the shem's sacrifice. No, not shem.

Friend. Daveth... is his friend. The realization hadn't come to him before, not really. How could he be friends with a shem after what they did to his wife and cousin?

He feels something shifting near his ankle and looks down to seen the giant pulling the trap open to release his leg. He hadn't expected the gia- Sten. He hadn't expected Sten to help him.

_"We're comrades, yeah? We're in this together, wolfy. That's how we end this damnable blight. Ya ain't gettin' left behind."_

Daveth's words race through his mind again. He thought the man had been joking, trying to lighten the mood as they trekked through five feet of snow trying to find Orzammar. 

Maroth grits his teeth, pushing the pain to the back of his mind. He can't run now. But he can fight. For his duckling, still out there somewhere with the dalish. She deserves to grow up in a world free of the blight.

He grips his spear in his hand, ready. He can't give up. _I love ya, Lala. My sweet duckling. Papa's sorry he won't make it back to ya. But i'll make ya proud, even ifs I die doin' it._

"This is for Brosca," he says, launching the spear at one of Jarvia's lieutenants. It hits him square between the eyes and Maroth whoops with joy even as his hands are reaching for his daggers. At least this time he has backups.

"Oiy, nice shot, Wolfy," Daveth says with a grin, blood dripping from the wound in his chest. 

Jarvia growls low in her throat. "The Stone take ya," she says, turning to Leske. "Kill them or ya die," she says.

Leske's face grows pale. "Alone?" he asks, voice small.

She presses a finger to her lips, as if she's thinking it over. "Yes. Ya against the warden."

Daveth frowns. "Like.. a dual? If I win, you'll give up?"

A slow, terrifying grin spreads across her face. "Of course, Warden," she purrs. "I always keep my word."

Maroth snorts. "Right, an' Andraste's a great flamin' friggin' dragon, yeah? Friggin' nutter."

A muscle twitches in Daveth's jaw as he steps forward, still bleeding. "I accept," he replies, much to Maroth's surprise.

Leske rolls his shoulders, a grim expression darkening his face. "The bloody things I do for the carta," he grumbles.

The two men circle each other for a few moments, both holding twin daggers. Daveth's are shiny and new, fresh bought from a lyrium-addled dwarf in the Diamond quarter. Their hilts are a dark blue, matching his Grey Warden silver and blue armor. He really looks like a Grey Warden, Maroth thinks to himself, with the griffon winged helmet and shining bloodstained armor. 

Leske's daggers are rusted at the hilt but still solidly built. Functional instead of pretty, and maybe a bit worn. A mark of his low status in the carta? His armor is much the same, sturdy and strong but ugly as sin and covered in rust and blood.

The dwarf makes the first move, leaping across the small space with his dagger. Daveth feints to the left before spinning and moving to the right, narrowly missing the weapon aimed at him. With one fluid motion he manages to bring the hilt of his dagger down atop Leske's head, using his height to his advantage, before ducking out of the way again.

Leske shakes his head, dazed as he stumbles backward toward Brosca's corpse. "Nug shit," he whispers.

It doesn't take him long to get his senses back, however, and the two men begin their dance again, slowly circling each other and looking for an opening.

This time it's Daveth who moves first. He's just a blur of speed for a moment as he goes left, right, center, only to spin around and somehow wind up behind Leske. He rams his dagger on the back of his head again and Maroth wonders why he's only gone for stunning blows.

_Take him out, ya daft fool._

Daveth advances on the dwarf, who stumbles backward, dizzy and disorientated. He slips in the pool of blood on the floor, landing hard on one knee.

The next few moments happen so fast Maroth can barely track what's happening. He hears Leske scream in pain before he realizes what's going on. Brosca pushes her self up, blood still pouring from her side. Her face is pale and he can tell she's lost too much blood but she sneers at Leske as she grabs her dagger.

"Why?" she asks, eyes narrowed with anger and pain.

Maroth's jaw drops. _She isn't dead? How'n ta fuck isn't she dead? Was she fakin' it?_

Leske sports a matching wound, a clean dagger cut to the side. He's still on one knee as he looks up at Brosca, fire and defiance in his eyes.

"You woulda done the same," he replies, voice low. "Dusters always do."

Brosca spits blood on the ground. "I would neva betray ya, Leske," she replies, voice shaking.

"It's all we know, Gerds. It's who we are, like it or not," Leske says, meeting her gaze head on. "We ain't nothin' but dust and dust isn't strong."

Brosca frowns. "We were a team," she retorts. "You were my Stone."

He nods his head. "I know. What it's worth, I'm sorra."

She steps forward, hands shaking. "So am I, salroka," she whispers as she runs the blade across his throat. Blood splatters against her face. "I loved you."

"Not fair! Not fair, not fair, not fair!" Jarvia screams. "Ya cheated! That bitch should be dead!" She takes out a wickedly curved set of daggers that shine like black diamonds. "I will slit ya throat myself, Brosca. FOR BERAHT!"

"Can you fight, Brosca?" Daveth asks, handing her a small via of healing potion.

She curls her lip at the stuff but drinks it. "I was born ta fight, now move outta my way," she replies with a growl. "Jarvia is _mine."_

Sten shouts a battle cry that sends a shiver down Maroth's side before wading into battle. He swings his broadsword like a beast, sending several dwarfs flying. The bronto stays close to Brosca, somehow assisting the dwarf as the two work in perfect harmony. 

Maroth focuses on the foe in front of him. There's no time to watch the others, to make sure they're okay. Regrets that they didn't bring Morrigan or Cullen with them burn through him but it had been Daveth's idea to leave them with the Aeducan princess to "gather information" they might need.

Each blow Maroth takes is punishing. He can feel his energy draining from him, even as more dwarves fall to their blades. He can't keep this up. Pain throbs in his side and everywhere else, a hundred cuts and bruises covering his body. He just wants to sleep. Lay down his weapons and give up. He's tired. He's done enough, right? He stayed and fought and didn't run and that's enough this time, isn't it? 

Images of Laylah's face flash in his mind, tears and snot streaming down her tiny, pudgy face as her tiny hands reach for him. _"Papa, don't go! Papa ducks can't go without their ducklings!"_

He squares his shoulders. He can't give up. He has to see Laylah again. Hold her tight in his arms and read her bedtime stories again, just like he promised. 

He bellows in determination as he charges at another enemy. They won't take him. If Vaughn couldn't kill him, neither would these fucking dwarves. He will see his daughter again, he thinks to himself as he continues to fight. And nobody will stop him.

It feels like hours pass by before the last dwarf falls. He pauses, blood and sweat dripping from his body, and looks around. Daveth leans against a wall, exhaustion clearly etched into every line on his face. Maroth sends him a wink and smile which just makes the other man shake his head with a half grin. Sten seems unfazed by the entire fight, standing silently in the middle of the room with a fierce glare in his eye. 

Brosca stands over Jarvia's body, leaning against the bronto for strength. She takes a deep breath before ramming her boot into Jarvia's face, causing blood to spurt everywhere. "That was for Leske," she says. She rams her boot down again and Jarvia screams. "That was for Rhy-Rhy." Another stomp. "That one was for me mum, you nug fucking bitch." One final stomp and Jarvia's head lolls to the side. "And that was for my sister." She sags against the bronto, blood still pouring from her wounds.

Sten walks over to her, bandages in hand. "You are injured," he states, deep voice rumbling and loud.

She attempts to grin up at him. "Thats I am, Peridotite," she replies, taking the bandages.

"I am a Sten of the Beresaad," he replies, frowning. "What is _peridotite_?"

She chuckles and shoots him a wink. "A really strong rock."


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puzzles are fun in game but writing out the puzzle in book / fic form is not. And we've seen before where demons / spirits can be dealt with in multiple ways, but sometimes we're limited by game mechanics. So, I took a lot of liberties with this DLC.

The air leading down to the cellar is damp with moisture. She can feel the magic here, humming through the rock and stone. It almost makes the air sing with the strength of its buzzing. There must be lyrium here, more than usual. Wynne had taught her that lyrium, when in strong enough amounts, made the world feel a little different for mages. The taste of it makes her feel more alive.

Trapped shades fight against invisible bonds. They scream in rage and anger, struggling to get free. Her skin crawls and she tries to shut out the sound. _All demons do is cause pain. This is why the templars are needed._ These thoughts flicker through her mind as they continue down the twisting, narrow passageway. One brushes against her and the agony makes her cry out in pain. 

"Are you okay?" Alistair asks, brow furrowed in concern. 

She can feel the magic receding, gently pulled from the room by Alistair's templar skills. She offers him a smile though she can feel her lips trembling at the corners. 

"I'm fine," she lies. "We need to find Amalia quickly. This isn't a place for a child to play."

Alistair nods. "No, definitely not. Can you imagine playing hide and seek with a shade?" He lets out a mock shiver. "A nightmare."

She chuckles despite herself, grateful that it's him down here with her. He clears his throat as they continue walking; Leliana, Izanami, Jowan, and Shale following single file behind them.

"So, tell me: do you have any siblings? I told you about my brother but never asked about your family. You probably think I'm a jerk, huh?" he asks, glancing over at her.

_A tiny hand reaches for her. Screams so loud she can't think. His fear beats against her mind. Help me. Help me. Sister, please help._

She shakes her head firmly. "None that I knew. I think I had an older brother but he went to the circle when I was a baby."

He smiles. "Ah, I see. Magic must run in your family?"

_A small boy shoots ice from his fingertips, freezing the lake. It'll be fun, he says. Play with me?_

Melina hides her trembling hands in the sleeves of her robe. "I- I suppose so," she whispers.

Something hovers on the edges of her memory. A face, small and round and laughing and golden eyes, just like her own...

Pain makes her double over. She clutches at her stomach as she struggles not to cry. She hasn't had stomach pains in years, not since Wynne made the nightmares stop. Her head feels like it's going to split open and confusion claws at her. Why now? Why is she having a panic attack now? Her breath feels trapped in her lungs, making her throat burn as she gasps trying to take in air.

Magic flows into her mind, a wavering but somehow still steady presence. It's unfamiliar but calming. She looks up to see Jowan's brown eyes filled with concern. That gentle magic... Is his?

"Are you alright? What's wrong?" he asks, brow furrowed together as he continues to send calming waves of magic toward her.

She didn't know blood mages could wield empathy magic.

"I- I'm fine, Jowan." She pauses a moment before straightening her robes. "Thank you," she adds, not meeting his eyes.

He gives her a hesitant smile, flinching only slightly. "Happy to help," he replies and she wonders if it was she who made him flinch on reflex like that. 

She thinks back on the last year and half. There was a time, when they were still children, when they all were friends. Being stuck in an unfamiliar place, so far from home, made them form bonds quickly or be consumed with loneliness. 

They had been a small but tight group. Anders, Niall, Jowan, Finn, Jalyn.... But their bond had faded almost as suddenly as it was formed. It started after Anders' first escape attempt. That had caused the beginning of their divide: Was Anders right, or wrong? Jalyn sided with Anders. Finn, Melina, and Niall were against it. Jowan had followed Jalyn. After that, there was always something that kept pushing them apart. Melina's crush on a templar had divided them further until it felt like they hardly knew each other. 

Melina only stayed close with Niall and Jalyn. She frowns, trying to remember when she began to hate him so much. A memory flickers in her mind of Jalyn and Jowan kissing in the dark corners of the circle. 

It's dangerous to couple in the circle. If the templars found them... Jalyn was in danger. Melina sighs. No, it wasn't only that or she never would have kissed Cullen back then. No, if she's being honest with herself, it was jealousy. Jalyn was standoffish and hostile toward most people. She barely got along with anyone except Melina. Jalyn was _hers._

Shame makes her skin feel hot. "Jowan?" She says his name quietly as they turn another corner.

But he still hears her. "Huh? What is it?"

"I-" She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "I'm sorry."

He blinks at her, face twisted with shock and confusion. "You're what?"

Her reply is cut short when she sees what's in the cellar. A young girl with blonde pigtails struggles to lift a heavy stone block that thrums with magic. A cat watches intently, a soft purple glow encircling it.

"Oh! You startled me! Kitty won't like that. Have you come to play?" the girl asks.

Melina feels her blood turn ice cold. "The... cat won't like that?" 

The girl nods, smiling as she drops the stone block into place. "Oh darn, that wasn't right, either," she says, lower lip starting to tremble. "I'm sorry, Kitty."

"It's alright, Amalia. Don't be sad, we'll figure this out together, won't we?" the cat replies, its voice a dual tone whisper.

"Maker save us, did that cat just _talk?"_ Jowan exclaims, eyes widening as he stares at it.

"What foul magic is this?" Alistair places his hand on the hilt of his sword, brow furrowed.

It's Izanami who steps closer to the cat, kneeling down to peer into its eyes. "This is no ordinary cat, Warden. Be cautious," she says. 

"Oh, good eye," Shale says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"We don't need you to tell us that," Melina snaps, causing the rest of her companions to look at her as if she'd grown a second head. "Sorry," you adds, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

Leliana smiles at her. "Do not be sorry, we are all tired and stressed. You are not alone, yes?"

Melina returns the smile briefly before looking back at the "cat". "What do you want with Amalia?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

The cat daintily licks it's paw before turning it's gaze to Melina. "Want? I want to be free from this prison. I want to stretch my legs beyond this tiny cage." It's voice is calm, steady, but Melina can hear a hint of desperation in it.

Just like Izanami.

"I won't let you harm the girl," Melina warns. "Your kind don't belong here."

The cat hisses, tail standing erect. "My kind? What do you know, mortal? Do you think I asked to be here? I WANT TO GO HOME," it bellows. 

Izanami glares at Melina a moment. "Home?" she asks, voice soft. "You mean the Fade?"

The cat calms at the sound of Izanami. "Yes," it replies. "That mage boy, he seemed so nice at first. I answered everything he asked but it wasn't enough. He brought me here, trapped me in this cage. He promised he'd let me go home, but I've down here for years."

"This... This place is an abomination," Izanami whispers. "A torture chamber."

Melina frowns, looking around. Torture? She sees no blood stains and no weapons or chains. Just shades locked away so they can't hurt the villagers.

"Ridiculous," Melina replies. 

Jowan frowns a bit, also looking around. "You don't think there might be some truth to what it says?"

"Demons lie," she says, meeting Izanami's gaze.

She shakes her head as she gets to her feet, using Wynne's staff like a cane. "So do humans," the demon replies.

"Melina, come here, please," Leliana calls out from the corner of the room. There's a desk over there, covered in old books and dusty scrolls.

"Did you find something?"

Leliana nods but there's an uncomfortable look on her face as she reads a particularly thick book. "I found his journal. _Day six: I've trapped the spirit inside my son's pet cat. I just need to make it trust me.... Day 45: The spirit won't cooperate. It knows something. I can feel it. I tested a new theory and if I inflict pain on the cat, the spirit reacts as if it hurt it. A careful application of pain and reward should get me the answers I seek. Day 128: I brought a few minor spirits here and put them in warded cells. This spirit seems to feel something for others of it's kind. If I turn a few into demons, perhaps that will tempt it to talk..."_ Leliana looks up at her in horror. "He is a monster," she says, voice full of anger.

Her entire body feels cold. Nothing makes sense. Demons covet the land of mortals. They are liars who will trick you into letting them out of the Fade. Demons are evil. That is what she's been taught since she came to Kinloch Hold. But this? These spirits were innocent. She closes her eyes and tries to listen to the shades screaming outside the cellar doors. They had sounded so vicious before but, as she listens, the sound seems different now. Still angry and desperate but also full of pain and agony. They all just want to go _home._

Shale stomps over, large stone feet echoing across the room. "I would sooner eat a book than read it but can I presume It found something interesting? I'm bored."

Melina chews on her lower lip. "I don't know what to do," she whispers. "We can't just leave them here, like this. But they're demons now and I- I don't know how to send them back to the Fade."

Leliana places a hand on her cheek. "We cannot save everyone, my sweet friend. But we can save Amalia."

Melina looks back at the child, gently petting the demon cat behind its ears. Yes, she can save one person. Even if she does nothing else good during the war, she can at least save one little ten-year-old girl.

Right?

"What is your name?" she asks the demon cat.

The cat shifts from paw to paw, tail twitching rapidly. "I- have been here too long, Mortal. I do not remember my purpose."

Shale grunts in reply. "It asked for your name, creature, not your purpose," they scoff.

"It is the same for u- for spirits, golem," Izanami replies. "Their names _are_ their purpose."

Fear trickles into Melina's mind at the near slip. Surely, if her companions knew what she did, they'd cut her down in an instant. Images of Alistair taking her life flash in her mind. She doesn't want to die.

She shakes off the uneasy feelings and focuses on the task at hand. Now is no time to let fear distract her. 

_All spirits have a singular purpose. This purpose is what guides them. Figuring out a spirit's purpose is as simple as asking or as complicated as unraveling a tangled ball of twine: it all depends on the nature of the spirit._

Somehow, she has a feeling her lessons aren't going to help her here.

Melina kneels down to gaze into the demon cat's eyes. "If we let you go, what would you do?"

Kitty stands up, stretching her front paws out in front of her and splaying the claws wide. "If I cannot go home, mortal, then I would wander until I found a way back. You mortals have those bound pieces of paper, yes? I can search through many of those. There must be a way home in one of them."

"Books? You would spend your time reading _books_?" Jowan asks, incredulity lacing his voice.

Izanami glowers but thankfully remains silent. For once.

"We shouldn't be talking to it, Mels. It's a _demon_ , remember?" Alistair says, hand still gripping the hilt of his sword.

"It was a spirit first, templar," Izanami snaps. "Is life only to be valued if it's something you understand?"

"I, uh-"

Leliana frowns as she steps forward, the heels of her boots clicking against the stone floor. "The Maker loves us all, Wynne. Surely you know this, yes? I believe he has room in his heart for all, even spirits. But this is no longer a spirit, but a demon."

"Because we made it into one," Melina whispers. "Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him. Magic isn't supposed to cause harm." 

Jowan shakes his head. "Magic isn't what caused this; a man did."

Melina bites her lip, thinking. Maybe Jowan's right. Maybe it isn't magic. 

Maybe some people are just born evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love you, Caro ;)


End file.
